LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



LOVE LETTERS 
OF A VIOLINIST 



LOVE LETTERS 
OF A VIOLINIST 



AND OTHER POEMS 



ERIC^MACKAY 



SPECIAL COPYRIGHT AMERICAN EDITION 
NEWLY REVISED BY THE AUTHOR 




NEW YORK / / 703 X 

LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 

43, 45 AND 47 EAST TENTH STREET 



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Copyright, 1892, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 



[All rights reserved.] 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 

TO 

AMERICAN EDITION. 



In bringing out in America a special edition of 
my " Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems," 
I have to certify that this is the only edition author- 
ized for the United States, all other copies, whether 
printed in America or introduced on behalf of an 
English firm, being incomplete. The version pub- 
lished by Walter Scott in his series of " Canterbury 
Poets " does not include " Gladys the Singer " or 
"A Choral Ode to Liberty," and the same may be 
said of "My Lady in Wrath " and the lyrics from 
"Nero and Actea," together with one of the sonnets, 
the one entitled, "A Veteran Poet." I am not sure 
that this is the place to launch out into what may 
be termed personalities, but something prompts me 
to speak of matters "not in the bond," and to say 
how grateful I am for sympathy shown me in the 



O PREFACE. 

" States " by men I have never seen — friends like the 
late John Eliot Bowen, the Rev. T. T. Munger, the 
late Paul Hamilton Hayne, and many others, in- 
cluding Edmund Clarence Stedman, poet and critic, 
whose great work, " The Victorian Poets," is now 
acknowledged everywhere as a masterpiece. That 
he has been generous in his praise of me affects me 
much. " You are an Englishman," he seems to say, 
leaning forward as it were on the threshold of his 
land. " Come in and live with us, in your books !" 
And here I am, my inner self, ready, in this new 
garb, to face what friends I have. I never forget — 
how can I ? — that my first readers were Americans, 
my first poem, so far as this collection is concerned, 
having been published in the Independent of New 
York, to which, and other journals, I herewith ten- 
der my most hearty thanks on this my birthday 
morning, when, as chance will have it, I am sending 
the proof-sheets of this book to America. 

Eric Mackay. 
London, January 25, 1892. 



TO MARIE, 



CONTENTS. 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 

PAGE 

Letter First. — Prelude 13 

Letter Second. — Sorrow 21 

Letter Third. — Regrets 29 

Letter Fourth. — Yearnings 37 

Letter Fifth. — Confessions 45 

Letter Sixth. — Despair 53 

Letter Seventh. — Hope 61 

Letter Eighth. — A Vision . . ' 69 

Letter Ninth. — To-morrow 77 

Letter Tenth. — A Retrospect 85 

Letter Eleventh. — Faith 93 

Letter Twelfth. — Victory 101 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 

Canto I ill 

Canto II 128 



10 CONTENTS. 



ODE. 

PAGE 

A Choral Ode to Liberty 145 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Anteros 155 

My Lady in Wrath 160 

The Waking of the Lark 164 

A Ballad of Kisses 167 

Mary Arden 168 

Sachal : A Waif of Battle 174 

The Lady of the May 178 

An Ode to Englishmen 181 

Zulalie 184 

Beethoven at the Piano 186 

A Rhapsody of Death 189 

A Prayer for Light 192 

Mirage 194 

A Mother's Name ■ 198 

A Song of Servitude 199 

Sylvia in the West 202 

Eleanore 210 

The Statue 211 

Pablo de Sarasate 213 

Pro Patria 217 

The Little Grave 222 

A Dirge 224 

Daisies Out at Sea 225 



CONTENTS. I I 

PAGE 

The King's Rest 228 

Hymn to the Rising Sun 231 

Lyrics from Nero and Actea 235 

SONNETS. 

1. Ecstasy 239 

11. Visions 240 

in. The Daisy 241 

IV. Probation 242 

v. Dante 243 

vi. Diffidence 244 

vii. Fairies 245 

viii. Spirit Love 246 

ix. After Two Days 247 

x. Byron 248 

xi. Love's Ambition 249 

xii. Love's Defeat 250 

xiii. A Thunderstorm at Night 251 

Xiv. In Tuscany 252 

xv. A Hero 253 

XVI. Remorse 254 

xvii. The Mission of the Bard 255 

XViil. Death 256 

Xix. To One I Love 257 

XX. Ex Tenebra 258 

xxi. Victor Hugo 259 

XXII. Cynthia 260 

XXiii. Philomel 261 



12 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

xxiv. The Sonnet King . . . . 262 

xxv. Token Flowers 263 

xxvi. A Prayer for England 264 

xxvii. A Veteran Poet 265 

ITALIAN POEMS, 

La Zingarella 269 

II Ponte d' Aviglio '. 275 

I Miei Saluti 277 



LETTER I. 

PRELUDE. 



LETTER I. 

PRELUDE. 



I. 

Teach" me to love thee as a man, in prayer, 
May love the picture of a sainted nun, 
And I will woo thee, when the day is done, 
With tears and vows, and fealty past compare, 
And seek the sunlight in thy golden hair, 
And kiss thy hand to claim thy benison. 

ii. 

I shall not need to gaze upon the skies, 

Or mark the message of the morning breeze, 
Or heed the notes of birds among the trees, 
If, taught by thee to yearn for Paradise, 
I may confront thee with adoring eyes 

And do thee homage on my bended knees. 



in. 



For I would be thy pilgrim ; I would bow 
Low as the grave, and lingering in the same, 
Live like a spectre ; or be burnt in flame 

To do thee good. A kingdom for a vow 

I'd freely give to be elected now 

The chief of all the servants of thy fame. 



1 6 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

Yes, like a Roman of the days of old, 

I would, for thee, constract a votive shrine, 
And fan the fire, and consecrate the wine ; 
And have a statue there, of purest gold, 
And bow thereto, unlov'd and unconsoled, 
But proud withal to know the statue thine. 



v. 

For it were sacrilege to stand erect, 

And face to face, within thy chamber lone, 
To urge again my right to what hath flown 

A bygone trust, a passion coldly check'd ! 

Were I a king of men, or laurel-deck'd, 
I were not fit to claim thee as mine own. 



VI. 

What am I then ? The sexton of a joy, 
So lately slain — so lately on its bier 
Laid out in state — I dare not, for the fear 

Of this dead thing, regard it as a toy. 

It was a splendid Hope without alloy, 
And now, behold ! I greet it with a tear. 



VII. 

It is my pastime, and my penance, too, 
My pride, my comfort, and my discontent, 
To count my sorrows ere the day is spent, 
And dream, at night, of love within the blue 
Of thy sweet eyes, and tremble through and through, 
And keep my house, as one that doth lament. 



LETTER FIRST. PRELUDE. 1 7 



VIII. 



Have I not sinn'd ? I have ; and I am curst, 
And Misery makes the moments, as they fly, 
Harder than stone, and sorrier than a sigh. 
Oh, I did wrong thee when I met thee first, 
And in my soul a fantasy was nurs'd 

That seem'd an outcome of the upper sky. 



IX. 

I thought a poor musician might aspire ; 
I thought he might obtain from thee a look, 
As Dian's self will smile upon a brook, 
And make it glad, though deaf to its desire, 
And tinge its ripples with a tender fire, 
And make it thankful in its lonely nook. 

x. 

I thought to win thee ere the waning days 

Had caught the snow, ere yet a word of mine 
Had pall'd upon thee in the summer shine ; 
And I was fain to meet thee in the ways 
Of wild romance, and cling to thee, and gaze, 
Between two kisses, on thy face divine. 



XI. 

Aye ! on thy face, and on the rippling hair 
That makes a mantle round thee in the night, 
A royal robe, a network of the light, 
Which fairies brought for thee, to keep thee fair, 
And hide the glories of a beauty rare 

As those of sylphs, — whereof the poets write. 



1 8 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

I thought, by token of thy matchless form, 
To curb thy will, and make thee mine indeed, 
From head to foot. There is no other creed 
For men and maids, in safety or in storm, 
Than this of love. Repentance may be warm, 
But love is best, though broken like a reed. 



XIII. 

" She shall be mine till death ! " I wildly said, 
" Mine, and mine only." And I vow'd, apace, 
That I would have thee in my dwelling-place ; 
Yea, like a despot, I would see thee led 
Straight to the altar, with a tear unshed, 
A wordless woe imprinted on thy face. 



XIV. 

I wanted thee. I yearned for thee afar. 

"She shall be mine," I cried, "and mine alone. 
A Gorgon grief may change me into stone 
If I be baulk'd ! " I hankered for a star, 
And soar'd, in thought, to where the angels are, 

To snatch my prize beyond the torrid zone. 



xv. 

I heeded not the teaching of the past. 

I heeded not the wisdom of the years. 

" She shall be mine," I urged, "till death appears, 
For death, I know, will conquer me at last." 
And then I found the sky was overcast ; 

And then I felt the bitterness of tears. 









LETTER FIRST. PRELUDE. 1 9 



XVI. 

"Behold!" I thought, "Behold, how fair to see 
Is this white wonder ! " And I wish'd thee well, 
But, like a demon out of darkest hell, 
I marr'd thy peace, and claim'd thee on the plea 
Of pride and passion ; and there came to me 
The far-off warning of a wedding-bell. 

XVII. 

A friend of thine was walking to her doom, 
A wife-elect, who, ere the summer sun 
Had plied its course, would weep for what was 
done, — 
A friend of thine and mine, who, in the gloom 
Of her own soul, had built herself a tomb, 

To tremble there, when tears had ceas'd to run. 

XVIII. 

On this I brooded ; but ah ! not for this 
Did I abandon what I sought the while : 
The dear damnation of thy tender smile, 

And all the tortures that were like a bliss, 

And all the raptures of a holier kiss 
Than fair Miranda's on the magic isle. 

XIX. 

I urged my suit. " My bond ! ". I did exclaim, 
" My pink and white, the hand I love to press, 
The golden hair that crowns her loveliness ; 

And all the beauties which I cannot name ; 

All, all are mine, and I will have the same, 

Though she should hate me for my love's excess." 






20 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

I knew myself. I knew the withering fate. 
That would consume me, if, amid my trust, 
I sued for Hope as beggars for a crust. 
" O God ! " I cried, entranced though desolate, 
" Hallow my love, or turn it into hate 1 " 
And then I bow'd, in anguish, to the dust. 



LETTER II. 

SORROW. 



LETTER II. 

SORROW. 



Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad. 

For there is madness in the looks of love ; 

And he who frights a tender, brooding- dove 
Is not more base than I, and not so sad ; 
For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad, 

And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above. 

ii. 

He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried 

To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees. 

He clomb the branches with his hands and knees, 

And craned his neck to kiss what he espied. 

But down he fell, unseemly in his pride, 
And told his follies to the fitful breeze. 

in. 

I was convicted of as strange a thing, 

And wild as strange ; for, in a hope forlorn, • 
I fought with Fate. But now the Flag is torn 
Which like a herald in the days of spring 
I held aloft. The birds have ceased to sing 

The dear old songs they sang from morn to morn. 



24 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

All holy things avoid me. Breezes pass 

And will not fan my cheek, as once they did. 
The gloaming hies away like one forbid ; 
And day returns, and shadows on the grass 
Fall from the trees ; and night and morn amass 
No joys for me this side the coffin-lid. 



v. 

Absolve me, Sweet ! Absolve me, or I die ; 

And give me pardon, if no other boon. 

Aye, give me pardon, and the sun and moon, 
And all the stars that wander through the sky 
Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd cry 

Of one poor heart will thank thee for it soon. 

VI. 

And mine Amati — my beloved one — 

The tender sprite who soothes, as best he may, 
My fever'd pulse, and makes a roundelay 
Of all my fears — e'en he, when all is done, 
Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none 
To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day. 



VII. 

For he is human, though, to look at him, 

To see his shape, to hear — as from the throat 
Of some bright angel — his ecstatic note, 

A sinful soul might dream of cherubim. 

Aye ! and he watches when my senses swim, 
And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float. 



LETTER SECOND. SORROW. 25 



VIII. 



Often, indeed, I tell him more than man 
E'er tells to woman in the honied hours 
Of tranced night, in cities or in bowers ; 
And more, perchance, than lovers in the span 
Of absent letters may, with scheming, plan 
For life's surrender in the fairy towers. 



IX. 

And he consoles me. There is none I find, 
None in the world, so venturesome and wild, 
And yet withal, so tender, true, and mild, 
As he can be. And those who think him blind 
Are much to blame. His ways are ever kind ; 
And he can plead as softly as a child. 

x. 

And when he talks to me I feel the touch 
Of some sweet hope, a feeling of content 
Almost akin to what by joy is meant. 
And then I brood on this ; for Love is such, 
It makes us weep to want it overmuch, 
If wayward Fate withhold his full consent 



XL 

Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire, 
My lov'd Amati ! At a word of thine 
I can be brave, and dash away the brine 
From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire 
That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre 
To curb the anguish of this soul of mine. 



26 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST, 



XII. 

Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings 
Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage, 
I cannot deem that in a gilded cage 
Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings 
Is not a mortal. No ! Enthralment flings 
Its charm about thee like a poet's rage. 



XIII. 

Thou hast no sex ; but, in an elfish way, 
Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth, 
The gleesome thoughts of man and maiden both. 
Thy voice is fullest at the flush of day, 
But after midnight there is much to say 
In weird remembrance of an April oath. 



XIV. 

And when the moon is seated on the throne 

Of some white cloud, with her attendants near— 
The wondering stars that hold her name in- fear- 
Oh ! then I know that mine Amati's tone 
Is all for me, and that he stands alone, 
First of his tribe, belov'd without a peer. 



xv. 

Yea, this is so, my Lady ! A fair form 
Made of the garner'd relics of a tree, 
In which of old a dryad of the lea 
Did live and die. He flourish'd in a storm, 
And learnt to warble when the days were warm, 
And learnt at night the secrets of the sea. 









LETTER SECOND. SORROW, 27 



XVI. 



And now he is all mine, for my caress 

And my strong bow — an Ariel, as it seems — 
A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams ; 
A prison'd wizard that has come to bless 
And will not curse, though tortured, more or less, 
By some remembrance that athwart him streams. 



XVII. 

It is the thought of April. Tis the tie 

That made us one ; for then the earth was fair 
With all things on't, and summer in the air 
Tingled for thee and me. A soft reply 
Came to thy lips, and I was like to die 

To hear thee make such coy confessions there. 

XVIII. 

It was the dawn of love (or so I thought) 
The tender cooing of thy bosom-bird — 
The beating heart that nutter'd at a word, 
And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught 
With wants unutter'd ! All my being caught 
Glamour thereat, as at a boon conferr'd. 



XIX. 

And I was lifted, in a minute's space, 

As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh to thee, 
And in thy wistful glances I could see 
Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy face 
A splendour fit for angels in the place 

Where God has named them all in their degree. 



28 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 



Ah, none so blest as I, and none so proud, 
In that wild moment when a thrill was sent 
Right through my soul, as if from thee it went 

As flame from fire ! But this was disallow'd ; 

And I shall sooner wear a winter shroud 
Than thou revoke my doom of banishment. 



LETTER III. 



REGRETS. 



LETTER III. 



REGRETS. 



When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven, 
A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite, 
Did seem to sing a song for my delight ; 
And, far away, did make its holy Steven 
Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven ; 
And I did weep thereat in my despite. 

ii. 

O glorious sun ! I thought, O gracious king 
Of all this splendour that we call the earth ! 
For thee the lark distils his morning mirth, 

But who will hear the matins that I sing ? 

Who will be glad to greet me in the spring, 
Or heed the voice of one so little worth ? 



in 

Who will accept the thanks I would entone 
For having met thee ? and for having seen 
Thy face an instant in the bower serene 
Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own, 
The rapture mine ; and Doubt was overthrown, 
And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne. 



32 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance, 
My violin, the friend I love the best 
(After thyself, sweet soul !) and widly press'd, 
And firmly drew it, with a master's glance, 
Straight to my heart ! The sunbeams seem'd to dance 
Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest. 



v. 

For then a living thing it did appear, 

And every chord had sympathies for me : 
And something like a lover's lowly plea 
Did shake its frame, and something like a tear 
Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year 
When first we met, we two, beside the sea. 



VI. 

I stood erect, I proudly lifted up 

The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now, 
As if for joy, my grief to disallow : — 
Are there not some who, in the choicest cup, 
Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup, 
Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow ? 



VII. 

Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell 
Why it is thus ? And others who repeat 
Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat ? 
And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell, 
And yet are brave ? And some who smile in Hell 
For thinking of the sin that was so sweet ? 



LETTER THIRD. REGRETS. $$ 



VIII. 

I have been one who, in the glow of youth, 
Have liv'd in books, and realised a bliss 
Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss 
Their minted joys ; and I have known, in sooth, 
The taste of water from the well of Truth, 
And found it good. But time has alter'd this. 



IX. 

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away, 
By one who is the Regent of the flowers, 
By one who, in the magic of her powers, 

Changes the day to night, the night to day, 

And makes a potion of the solar ray 

Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours. 



I have been taught that Happiness is coy, 
And will not come to all who bend the knee ; 
That Faith is like the foam upon the sea, 
And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy. 
And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy ; 
And she I love has taught these things to me. 



XI. 

Yes, thou, my Lady ! Thou hast made me feel 
The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain d 
And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd 

A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel? 

I do it gladly. But to mine appeal 

No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd. 

3 



34 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

Why, then, this rancour ? Why so cold a thing 
As thy displeasure, O thou dearest One ? 
I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sun 
The fire of Heaven ; but I did seek to bring 
Glory from thee to me ; and in the Spring 
I pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone. 



XIII. 

I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my song 
Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak, 
The wan despair that words can never speak. 

I pray'd as if my spirit did belong 

To some old master, who was wise and strong 
Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak. 



XIV. 

I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh, 

And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap 
Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep 

A young she-devil. I was fired thereby 

To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry 

Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep. 



xv. 

I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow 
just time enough to fit it to a mesh 
Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh 
To talk of truth and constancy and woe, 
And life, and love, and madness, and the glow 
Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh. 



LETTER THIRD. REGRETS. 35 



XVI. 

It was the Lord of music, it was he 

Who seiz'd my hand. He forced me, as I play'd, 

To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade 
Where once we strolled at night ; and wild and free 
My notes did ring ; and quickly unto me 

There came the joy that maketh us afraid. 



XVII. 

Oh ! I shall die of tasting in my dreams 
Poison of love and ecstasy of pain ; 
For I shall never kneel to thee again, 
Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams 
Of golden vales, or of the morning beams 

Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain ! 



XVIII. 

Yet it were easy, too, to compass this, 
So thou wert kind ; and easy to my soul 
Were harder things if I could reach the goal 
Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss 
In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss 

More fraught with honour than a king's control. 



XIX. 

It is not much to say that I would die ; — 
It is not much to say that I would dare 
Torture, and doom, and death, could I but share 
One kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh, 
I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby, 
Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair. 



36 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 

XX. 

It is not much to say that this is so ; 
Yet I would sell my substance and my breath, 
And all the joy that comes from Lazareth, 
And all the peace that all the angel's know, 
To lie with thee, one minute, in the snow 
Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in death ! 






LETTER IV. 

YEARNINGS. 



LETTER IV. 

YEARNINGS. 
I. 

The earth is glad, I know, when night is spent. 
For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers 
And, one by one, the rosy-footed hours 
Start for the race ; and from his crimson tent 
The soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament ; 
And all his path is strewn with festal flowers. 



ii. 

But what his mission ? What the happy quest 
Of all this toil? He journeys on his way 
As Caesar did, unbiass'd by the sway 
Of maid or man. His goal is in the west, 
Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest, 

Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day ? 



in. 

Will he arraign the traitor in his camp ? 

The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair, 
Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fair 
And ravish'd her, and left her in the damp 
Of dull decay, nor re-illumed the lamp 

That showed the place she occupied in air. 



• t 



40 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 






IV. 

No ; 'tis not so ! He seeks his lady-moon, 
The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd, 
And trusts to find her by the ocean tide, 

Or near a forest in the coming June ; 

For he has lov'd her since she late did swoon 
In that eclipse of which she nearly died. 



He knew her then ; he knew her in the glow 

Of all her charms. He knew that she was chaste, 
And that she wore a girdle at her waist 

Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed her so 

He knew that in the final overthrow 
He should prevail, and she should be embraced. 



VI. 

But were I minded thus, were I the sun, 

And thou the moon, I would not bide so long 
To hear the marvels of thy wedding-song ; 
For I would have the planets, every one, 
Conduct thee home, before the day was done, 

And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng. 



VII. 

And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee, 

And rend thy veil, and call thee by the name 
That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame ; 
And make myself for thee as white to see 
As whitest marble, and as wildly free 
As Leda's lover with his look of flame. 









LETTER FOURTH. YEARNINGS. 41 



VIII. 

And there should then be fetes that should not cease 
Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one ! in a trance 
Lasting a life-time, through a life's romance ; 
And every star should have a mate apiece, 
And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece, 
The gods were masters of the maidens' dance. 

IX. 

I should be bold to act ; and thou should'st feel 
Terror and joy combined, in all the span 
Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran 
From curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel, 
And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal, 
I should be quick to answer like a man. 



x. 

What ! have I sinn'd, dear Lady ? have I sinn'd 
To talk so wildly ? Have I sinn'd in this ? 
An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss ! 
Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde 
In some wild wood ? My soul is fever-thinn'd, 
And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss. 



XI. 

I will not weep. I will not in the night 
Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees, 
Appeal for pity ! In the clustered trees 

The wind is boasting of its one delight ; 

And I will boast of mine, in thy despite, 
And say I love thee more than all of these. 






42 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings, 
The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere, 
The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear, — 
All these, and more, all these ecstatic things, 
Possess their mates ; and some arrive on wings, 
And some on webs, to make their meanings clear. 



XIII. 

Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell, 
More than the most we know of, one and all, 
Do talk of Love. There is no other call 
From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel, 
Than Love's alone — the thing we cannot quell, 
Do what we will, from font to funeral. 



xiv. 

What have I done, I only on the earth, 
That I should wait a century for a word ? 
A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd 
Since last we met, and then it was in dearth 
Of gladsome peace ; for, in a moment's girth, 
My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird. 

xv. 

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sound 
Of that sweet oracle which once did tend 
To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend ; 
And I would know't if darkly underground 
I lay as dead, or, down among the drown 'd, 
I blindly stared, unvalued to the end. 






LETTER FOURTH. YEARNINGS. 43 



XVI. 



Tftere ! take again the kiss I took from thee 
Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream 
And drew thee closer than a monk may deem 
Good for the soul. I know not how it be, 
But this I know : if God be good to me 
I shall be raised again to thine esteem. 



XVII. 



I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold. 
And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind 
How, in the night, a murmur not unkind 
Broke on mine ear ; a something new and old 
Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told 

Of some great hope with madness intertwined. 



XVIII. 

And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear, 

There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm. 
These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm 

To choose their queen. But ere they did appear, 

I heard again that murmur in mine ear 

Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm. 



XIX. 

"What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep, 
And turned to thee, as April unto May. 
"Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day, 
Now and for ever ? " And I heard thee weep, 
And then persuade ; and then my soul did leap 
Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway. 



■ 



44 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

I fondled thee ! I drew thee to my heart, 
Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb. 
And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come 
Forth from thy lips. ... I waken'd, with a start, 
To find thee gone. The day had taken part 
Against the total of my blisses' sum. 



LETTER V. 

CONFESSIONS. 



LETTER V. 



CONFESSIONS. 



O Lady mine ! Lady of my Life ! 
Mine and not mine, a being of the sky 
Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why— 
Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife 
With thy poor servant ? War unto the knife, 
Because I greet thee with a lover's eye ? 



ii. 



Is't well to visit me with thy disdain, 

And rack my soul, because, for love of thee, 
I was too prone to sink upon my knee, 
And too intent to make my meaning plain, 
And too resolved to make my loss a gain 
To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea ? 



in. 



O friend ! forgive me for my dream of bliss. 

Forgive : forget : be just ! Wilt not forgive ? 

Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve 
The salt sea-sand ? What joy hast thou in this : 
To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss ? 

Say ! Must I die, to prove that I can live ? 



48 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 






IV. 



Shall this be so ? E'en this ? And all my love 
Wreck' d in an instant ? No, a gentle heart 
Beats in thy bosom ; and the shades depart 
From all fair gardens, and from skies above, 
When thou art near. For thou art like a dove, 

And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art. 



Oh ! it is like the death of dearest kin, 

To wake and find the fancies of the brain 
Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain 

Of some lost music, and we find within, 

Deep in the heart, the record of a sin, 

The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain. 



VI. 

For it is deadly sin to love too well, 

And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought, 
To feed on dreams ; and yet 'tis aptly thought 
That all must love. E'en those who most rebel 
In Eros' camp have known his master-spell ; 
And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught. 



VII. 

But I am mad to love. I am not wise. 
I am the worst of men to love the best 
Of all sweet women ! An untimely jest, 
A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs, 
And unordained on earth, and in the skies, 
And undesired in tumult and in rest. 



LETTER FIFTH. CONFESSIONS. 49 



VIII. 

All this is true. I know it. I am he. 
I am that man. I am the hated friend 
Who once received a smile, and sought to mend 
His soul with hope. O tyrant ! by the plea 
Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me 
At least the notes that know not to offend. 



IX. 

See ! I will strike again the major chord 

Of that great song, which, in his early days, 
Beethoven wrote ; and thine shall be the praise, 
And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword 
Flashing therein ; and thine, O thou adored 
And bright true Lady ! all the poet's lays. 



x. 

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy, 
To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless, 
And those that mind thee of a past caress. 
Lo ! with a whisper to the Winged Boy 
Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ 
To make a matin-song of my distress. 



XI. 

But playing thus, and toying with the notes, 
I half forget the cause I have to weep ; 
And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep, 
I hear the bird of morning where he floats 
High in the welkin, and in fairy boats 
I see the minstrels sail upon the deep. 



50 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

In mid-suspension of my leaping- bow 
I almost hear the silence of the night ; 
And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright 
Because they love, and that they nightly glow 
To make it clear that there is nought below, 
And nought above, so fair as Love's delight. 

XIII. 

But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone, 
Without Amati ? Shall I prove, by words, 
That hope is meant for men as well as birds ; 
That I would take a scorpion, or a stone, 
In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne 

To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds ? 



XIV. 

Ah, no, my Lady ! though I sang to thee 

With fuller voice than sings the nightingale — 
Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale 
Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free 
And fire-lipp'd Byron — there would come to me 
No word of thine to thank me for the tale. 



xv. 

Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when, 
In bower or grove — or in the holy nook 
Which shields thy bed — thou would'st not care to 
look 
For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken 
As are the minds of England's fighting men 

When they inscribe their names in Honour's book. 









LETTER FIFTH. CONFESSIONS. 5 1 



XVI. 

Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through 
This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought. 
Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught 
To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue 
And quick to flash (if what I hear be true) 
And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought 



XVII. 

But wilt thou own it ? Wilt thou, in the scroll 
Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive, 
A thousand happy fancies that contrive 
To seek thee out ? Thy bosom is the goal 
Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control 
They wend their way, elate to be alive. 

XVIII. 

But there is something I could never bring 
My soul to compass. No ! could I compel 
Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell 
A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring 
With loveless hands around my neck to cling ; 
For this were worse than all the fires of hell. 



XIX. 

I would not take thee from a lover's lips, 
Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd, 
Or from the memory of a husband's shroud, 

Or from the goblet where a Caesar sips. 

I would not touch thee with my finger tips, 
But I would die to serve thee — and be proud. 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

And could I enter Heaven, and find therein, 
In all the wide dominions of the air, 
No trace of thee among the natives there, 
I would not bide with them — No ! not to win 
A seraph's lyre — but I would sin a sin, 

And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere ! 



LETTER VI. 

DESPAIR 



LETTER VI. 



DESPAIR. 



I am undone. My hopes have beggar'd me, 

For I have lov'd where loving- was denied. 

To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died, 

And when To-morrow comes, erect and free, 

Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be, 

And whose defender in the days of pride ? 



ii. 

I am not cold, and yet November bands 

Compress my heart. I know the month is May, 
And that the sun will warm me if I stay. 
But who is this ? Oh, who is this that stands 
Straight in my path, and with his bony hands 
Appeals to me to turn some other way ? 



in. 

It is the phantom of my murder'd joy, 
Which once again has come to persecute, 
And tell me tales which late I did refute. 
But ! I now must heed them, as a boy 
Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy, 
Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute. 



LETTER VI. 



DESPAIR. 



I. 



I am undone. My hopes have beggar'd me, 

For I have lov'd where loving was denied. 

To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died, 

And when To-morrow comes, erect and free, 

Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be, 

And whose defender in the days of pride ? 



ii. 

I am not cold, and yet November bands 

Compress my heart. I know the month is May, 
And that the sun will warm me if I stay. 
But who is this ? Oh, who is this that stands 
Straight in my path, and with his bony hands 
Appeals to me to turn some other way ? 



in. 

It is the phantom of my murder'd joy, 
Which once again has come to persecute, 
And tell me tales which late I did refute. 
But ! I now must heed them, as a boy 
Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy, 
Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute. 



56 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 






IV. 

It is the ghost that, day by day, did come 

To tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak ; 

It is the thing that wept, and would not speak, 

And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb, 

Did seem to hint at Death that was the sum 

Of all we know, and all we strive to seek. 



And now it comes again, and with its eye 
Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face, 
Doth point, exacting, to the very place 

Where I do keep, that no one may descry, 

A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry, 

A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace. 



VI. 

It means, perchance, that I must make an end 
Of all these things, and burn them as a fee 
To my despair, when down upon my knee. 

O piteous thing ! have pity ; be my friend ; 

Or say, at least, that blessings will descend 
On her I love, on her if not on me ! 



VII. 

The Shape did smile ; and, wildly, with a start, 
Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent, 
Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament. 
And then I knew it had but tried my heart, 
To teach me how to play a manly part, 
And strengthen me in all my good intent. 



LETTER SIXTH. DESPAIR. 57 



VIII. 



And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf 
In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing 
Of wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing. 

A child may moan, but not a mountain chief. 

If we be sad, if we possess a grief, 

The grief should be the slave, and not the king. 



IX. 

Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the Past 
The full discernment of my sorry cheer, 
And why the sunlight seems no longer clear, 
And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast, 
The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast, 
I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear. 



It was thy friendship. It was this I had, 
This and no more. I was a fool to doubt, 
I was a fool to strive to put to rout 
My many foes — thy musings tender-glad, 
Which all had said : — " Avoid him ! he is mad — ■ 
Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout." 

XI. 

I should have known — I should have guess'd in time- 
That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour, 
My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower. 
I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime, 
Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme. 
Would droop and die, like petals from a flower. 



58 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

I should have known, indeed, that to the brave 
All things are servants. But my lost Delight 
Was like the ship that founders in a night, 
And leaves no mark. How then ? Is Passion's grave 
All that is left beside the sobbing wave ? 

The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight? 



XIII. 

I had a fleet of ships, and where are they ? 

Where are they all ? and where the merchandise 
I treasured once — an empire's golden prize, 
The empire of a soul, which, in a day, 
Lost all its wealth ? I was deceiv'd, I say, 
For I had reckon'd on propitious skies. 



XIV. 

I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack. 
I look'd anear, and felt the summer breeze 
Warm on my cheek ; and forth upon the seas 
I sent my ships ; and would not have them back, 
Though some averr'd a storm was on the track 
Of all I lov'd and all I own'd of these. 

xv. 

One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third 

" Love in a Dream," and, last, not least of all, 
< ' Hope, " and ' ' Content, " and ' ' Pride that hath a Fall. ' 
And they were goodly vessels, by my word, 
With sails as strong as pinions of a bird, 
And crew that answer d well to Duty's call. 



LETTER SIXTH. DESPAIR. 59 



XVI. 

In one of these — in " Hope " — where I did fly 

A lofty banner, — in this ship I found 

Dooms-day at last, and all my crew were drown'd. 
Yes, I was wrecked in this, and here I lie, 
Here on the beach, forlorn and like to die, 

With none to pray for me on holy ground. 

XVII. 

O sweet my Lady ! If thou pass this way, 
If thou behold me where I lie beset 
By wind and wave, and powerless to forget, 
Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say : — 
"This man was true. He lov'd me night and day, 
And, though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet ? " 



XVIII. 

Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night, 
And shed for me a tear, as one my grieve 
For people known in books, for men who weave 

Ropes out of sand, to lead them to the light ? 

Oh I treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white, 
I will forego the dreams to which I cleave. 



XIX. 

Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er, 

When some such book is calmly laid aside : — 
''The shadow-men have liv'd and loved and died; 

The shadow-women will be vexed no more. 

But there is One for whom my heart is sore, 
Because he took a shadow for his guide/' 



6o 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

Say only this ; but pray for me withal, 

And let a pitying thought possess thee then, 
Whether at home, at sea, or in a glen 
In some wild nook. It were a joy to fail 
Dead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call, 
For I should then be peerless among men 



LETTER VII. 
HOPE. 



LETTER VII. 

HOPE. 



tears of mine ! Ye start I know not why, 
Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad, 
Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad 

1 scarce can deem that my despair will die, 
Or that the sun, careering up the sky, 

Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad. 



ii. 

And yet, who knows ? The world is, to the mind, 
Much as we make it ; and the things we tend 
Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend. 
And some such things are fair, though ill-defined, 
And some are scathing, like the wintry wind ; 
And some begin, and some will never end. 



in. 

How can I think, ye tears ! that I have been 
The thing I was — so doubting, so unfit, 
And so unblest, with brows for ever knit, 
And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean 
And cold and pale, as if I late had seen 
Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it ? 



64 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

Oh, why is this ? Oh, why have I so long 

Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane 
To golden fields, and all the happy plain 
Where once I met the Lady of my Song, 
The lady for whose sake I shall be strong, 
But never weak or diffident again ? 



v. 

I was too shorn of hope. I did employ 

Words like a mourner ; and to Her I bow'd, 
As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud. 
But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy — 
Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy ; 
And all the world shall see that I am proud. 



VI. 

I shall be sated now. I shall receive 

More than the guerdon of my wildest thought, 
More than the most that ectasy has taught 
To saints in Heaven ; and more than poets weave 
In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive ; 

And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought 



VII. 

I know the meaning now of all the signs, 
And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams. 
I realise the comfort of the streams, 

When they reflect the shadows of the pines. 

I know that there is hope for celandines, 
And that a tree is merrier than it seems. 



LETTER SEVENTH. HOPE. 65 



VIII. 



I know the mighty hills have much to tell ; 
And that they quake, at times, in undertone, 
And talk to stars, because so much alone 
And so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell, 
Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bell 
Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown. 



IX. 

I know such things, because to loving hearts 
Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd, 
Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade 
Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts 
That once were Cupid's ; and the day departs, 
And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid. 



x. 

The lover knows how grand a thing is love, 

How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divine, 
More than the pouring out of choicest wine ; 

More than the whiteness of the whitest dove ; 

More than the glittering of the stars above ; 
And such a love, O Love ! is thine and mine. 



XI. 

To me the world, to-day, has grown so fair 
I dare not trust myself to think of it. 
Visions of light around me seem to flit, 
And Phoebus loosens all his golden hair 
Right down the sky ; and daisies turn and stare 
At things we see not with our human wit. 

5 



66 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 



And here, beside me, there are mosses green 
In shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array, 
And lordly beetles out for holiday ; 
And spiders small that work in silver sheen 
To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen, 

That she may don it on the First of May. 



XIII. 

I hear in thought, I hear the very words 
That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook, 
Spoke to Diana, when her leave she took 
Of all she lov'd — low-weeping as the birds 
Shrill'd out of tune, and all the frightened herds 
Scamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook. 



XIV. 

I know, to-day, why winds were made to sigh, 
And why they hide themselves, and why they gloat 
In some old ruin ! Mote confers with mote, 
And shell with shell ; and corals live and die, 
And die and live, below the deep. And why ? 
To make a necklace for my lady's throat. 



XV. 

And yet the world, in all its varied girth, 

Lacks what we look for. There is something base 
In mere existence — something in the face 

Of men and women which accepts the earth, 

And all its havings, as its right of birth, 
But not its quittance, not its resting-place. 



LETTER SEVENTH. HOPE. 6j 



XVI. 

There have been moments, at the set of sun, 
When I have long'd for wings upon the wind, 
That I might seek a planet to my mind, 

More full-develop'd than this present one ; 

With more of scope, when all is said and done, 
To satisfy the wants of human kind. 



XVII. 

A world with thee, a home in some remote 
And unknown region, which no sage's ken 
Has compass'd yet ; of which no human pen 
Has traced the limits ; where no terrors float 
In wind or wave, and where the soul may note 
A thousand raptures unreveal'd to men. 



XVIII. 

To be transported in a magic car, 

On some transcendent night in early June, 
Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon ; 
To have our being in a bridal star, 
In lands of light, where only angels are, 

Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon. 



XIX. 

To be all this : to have in our estate 

Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay 
Of some new planet where a summer's day 
Lasts fifty years ; and there to celebrate 
Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate — 
This were a subject for a seraph's lay. 



68 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

This were a life to live,— a life indeed, — 
A thing to die for ; if, in truth, we die 
When we but put our mortal vestments by. 
This were a climax for a lover's need 
Sweeter than songs, and holier than the creed 
Of half the zealots who have sought the sky. 






LETTER VIII. 

A VISION. 



LETTER VIII. 



A VISION. 



I. 



Yes, I will tell thee what, a week ago, 

I dreamt of thee, and all the joy therein 

Which I conceiv'd, and all the holy din 

Of throbbing music, which appear'd to flow 

From room to room, as if to make me know 

The power thereof to lead me out of sin. 



ii. 

Methought I saw thee in a ray of light, 

This side a grove — a dream within a dream— 
With eyes of tender pleading, and the gleam 

Of far-off summers in thy tresses bright ; 

And I did tremble at the gracious sight, 
As one who sees a naiad in a stream. 



in. 

I follow'd thee. I knew that, in the wood, 

Where thus we met, there was a trysting-place. 
I follow'd thee, as mortals in a chase 
Follow the deer. I knew that it was good 
To track thy step, and promptly understood 
The fitful blush that flutter'd to thy face. 



72 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

I followed thee to where a brook did run 
Close to a grot ; and there I knelt to thee. 
And then a score of birds flew over me — 
Birds which arrived because the day was done, 
To sing the Sanctus of the setting sun ; 
And then I heard thy voice upon the lea. 

v. 

" Follow ! " it cried. I rose and folio w'd fast ; 
And, in my" dream, I felt the dream was true, 
And that, full soon, Titania, with her crew 

Of imps and fays, would meet me on the blast. 

But this was hindered ; and I quickly passed 
Into the valley where the cedars grew. 



VI. 

And what a scene, O God ! and what repose, 
And what sad splendour in the burning west : 
A languid sun low-dropping to his rest, 
And incense rising, as of old it rose, 
To do him honour at the daylight's close, — 

The birds entranced, and all the winds repress'd. 



VII. 

I followed thee. I came to where a shrine 
Stood in the trees, and where an oaken gate 
Swung in the air, so turbulent of late. 

I touch'd thy hand ; it quiver'd into mine ; 

And then I look'd into thy face benign, 

And saw the smile for which the angels wait. 



LETTER EIGHTH. A VISION. J^ 



VIII. 

And lo ! the moon had sailed into the main 
Of that blue sky, as if therein did poise 
A silver boat ; and then a tuneful noise 

Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain ; 

And nightingales, in ecstasy of pain, 

Did break their hearts with singing the old joys. 



IX. 

" Is this the spot ? " I cried, "is this the spot 
Where I must tell thee all my heart's desire ? 
Is this the time when I must drink the fire, 

And eat the snow, and find it fever-hot ? 

I freeze with heat, and yet I fear it not ; 
And all my pulses thrill me like a lyre." 



A wondrous light was thrown upon thy face ; 
• It was the light within ; it was the ray 

Of thine own soul. And then a voice did say, 
" Glory to God the King, and Jesu's grace 
Here and hereafter ! " And about the place 

A radiance shone surpassing that of day. 



XI. 

It was thy voice. It was the voice I prize 
More than the sound of April in the dales. 
More than the songs of larks and nightingales, 

And more than teachings of the worldly-wise. 

"Glory to God," it said, "for. in the skies, 
And here on earth, 'tis He alone prevails." 



74 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 

XII. 

And then I asked thee : " Shall I tell thee now 
* All that I think of, when, by land and sea, 

The days and nights illume the world for me ? 
And how I muse on marriage, as I bow 
In God's own places, with a throbbing brow ? 

And how, at night, I dream of kissing thee ? " 

XIII. 

But thou did'st answer : " First behold this man ! 

He is thy lord, for love's and lady's sake ; 

He is thy master, or I much mistake. " 
And I perceiv'd, hard by, a phantom wan 
And wild and kingly, who did, walking, span 

The open space that lay beside the brake. 

XIV. 

It was Beethoven. It was he who came 

From monstrous shades, to journey yet awhile 
In pleasant nooks, and vainly seek the smile 
Of one lov'd woman — she to whom his fame 
Had been a glory had she sought the same, 
And lov'd a soul so grand, so free from guile. 



xv. 

It was the Kaiser of the land of song, 

The giant-singer who did storm the gates 
Of Heaven and Hell, a man to whom the Fates 
Were fierce as furies, and who suffer'd wrong 
And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong, 
But gaunt as ocean when its rage abates. 



LETTER EIGHTH. A VISION. 75 



XVI. 



I knew his tread. I knew him by his look 
Of pent-up sorrow — by his hair unkempt 
And torn attire — and by his smile exempt 
From all but pleading. Yet his body shook 
With some great joy ; and onward he betook 
His echoing steps the way that I had dreamt. 



XVII. 



I bow'd my head. The lordly being pass'd. 

He was my king, and I did bow to him. 

And when I rais'd mine eyes they were as dim 
As tears could make them. And the moon, aghast, 
Glared in the sky ; and westward came a blast 

Which shook the earth like shouts of cherubim. 



XVIII. 

I held my breath. I could have fled the place, 
As men have fled before the wrath of God. 
But I beheld my Lady where she trod 
The darken'd path ; and I did cry apace : 
" Help me, my Lady ! " and thy lustrous face 
Gladden'd the air, and quicken'd all the sod. 



XIX. 

Then did I hear again that voice of cheer. 

" Lovest thou me," it said, "or music best ? " 
I seized thy hand, I drew thee to my breast. 
" Thee, only thee ! " I cried. " From year to year, 
Thee, only thee — not fame ! " And silver-clear, 
Thy voice responded : " God will grant the rest." 



76 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

I kiss'd thine eyes. I kiss'd them where the blue 
Peep'd smiling forth ; and proudly as before 
I heard the tones that thrill'd me to the core. 
" If thou love me," they said, "if thou be true, 
Thou shalt have fame, and love, and music too ! " 
Entranced I kiss'd the lips that I adore. 



LETTER IX. 

TO-MORROW. 



LETTER IX. 



TO-MORROW. 



O Love ! O Love ! O Gateway of Delight ! 
Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime 
Of all God's creatures ! I am here to climb 
Thine upward steps, and daily and by night 
To gaze beyond them, and to search aright 
The far-off splendour of thy track sublime. 

ii. 

For, in thy precincts, on the further side, 
Beyond the turret where the bells are rung, 
Beyond the chapel where the rites are sung, 

There is a garden fit for any bride. 

O Love ! by thee, by thee are sanctified 
The joys thereof to keep our spirits young. 



in. 

By thee, dear Love ! by thee, if all be well — 
And we be wise enough to own the touch 
Of some bright folly that has thrill'd us much — 

By thee, till death, we may regain the spell 

Of wizard Merlin, and in every dell 

Confront a Muse, and bow to it as such. 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

Love ! Happy Love ! Behold me whete I stand 
This side thy portal, with my straining eyes 
Turn'd to the Future. Cloudless are the skies, 

And, far adown the road which thou hast spann'd, 

I see the groves of that elected land 
Which is the place I call my paradise. 



v. 

But what is this ? The plains are known to me ; 
The Irlls are known, the fields, the little fence, 
The noisy brook as clear as innocence, 
And this old oak, the wonder of the lea, 
Which stops the wind to know if there shall be 
Sorrow for men, or pride, or recompense. 



VI. 

I know these things, yet hold it little blame 

To know them not, though m their proud array, 
The flowers advance to make the world so gay. 

Ah, what a change ! The things I know by name 

Look unfamiliar all, and, like a flame, 
The roses burn upon the hedge to-day. 



VII. 

The grass is velvet. There are pearls thereon, 
And golden signs, and braid that doth appear 
Made for a bridal. This is fairy gear 

If I mistake not. I shall know anon. 

Nature herself will teach me how to con 

The new-found words to thank the glowing year. 

6 






LETTER NINTH. TO-MORROW. g r 



VIII. 



This is the path that led me to the brook ; 
And this the mead, and this the mossy slope, 
And this the place where breezes did elope 

With giddy moths, enamour'd of a look ; 

And here I sat alone, or with a book, 

Dreaming- the dreams of constancy and hope. 

IX. 

I loved the river well ; but not till now 
Did I perceive the marvels of the shore. 
This is a cave, and this an emerald floor; 
And here Sir Eglantine might make a vow, 
And here a king, a guilty king, might bow 
Before a child, and break his word no more. 



x. 

The day is dying. I shall see him die, 
And I shall watch the sunset, and the red 
Of all that splendour when the day is dead. 
And I shall see the stars upon the sky, 
And think them torches that are lit on high 
To light the Lord Apollo to his bed. 



XI. 

And sweet To-morrow, like a golden bark, 
Will call for me, and lead me on apace 
To where I shall behold, in all her grace, 
Mine own true Lady, whom a happy lark 
Did late salute, appointing, after dark, 
A nightingale to carol in his place. 



82 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

Oh, come to me ! Oh, come, beloved day, 
O sweet To-morrow ! Youngest of the sons 
Of old King Time, to whom Creation runs 
As men to God. Oh, quickly with thy ray 
Anoint my head, and teach me how to pray, 
As gentle Jesus taught the little ones. 



XIII. 

I am aweary of the waiting hours, 

I am aweary of the tardy night. 

The hungry moments rob me of delight, 
The crawling minutes steal away my powers ; 
And I am sick at heart, as one who cowers, 

In lonely haunts, remov'd from human sight. 



XIV. 

How shall I think the night was meant for sleep, 
When I must count the dreadful hours thereof, 
And cannot beat them down, or bid them doff 
Their hateful masks ? A man may wake and weep 
From hour to hour, and, in the silence deep, 

See shadows move, and almost hear them scoff. 



xv. 

Oh, come to me, To-morrow ! like a friend, 
And not as one who bideth for the clock. 
Be swift to come, and I will hear thee knock, 
And though the night refuse to make an end 
Of her dull peace, I promptly will descend 
And let thee in, and thank thee for the shock. 



LETTER NINTH. TO-MORROW. 83 



XVI. 

Dear, good To-morrow ! in my life, till now, 
I did not think to need thee quite so soon. 
I did not think that I should hate the moon, 
Or new or old, or that my fevered brow 
Requir'd the sun to cool it. I will bow 

To this new day, that he may grant the boon. 



XVII. 

Yes, 'twill consent. The day will dawn at last. 

Day and the tide approach. They cannot rest. 

They must approach. They must by every test 
Of all men's knowledge, neither slow nor fast, 
Approach and front us. When the night is past, 

The morrow's dawn will lead me to my quest. 



XVIII. 

Then shall I tremble greatly, and be glad, 
For I shall meet my true-love all alone, 
And none shall tell me of her dainty zone, 

And none shalj say how sweetly she is clad ; 

But I shall know it. Men may call me mad ; 

But I shall know how bright the world has grown. 



XIX. 

There is a grammar of the lips and eyes, 

And I have learnt it. There are tokens sure 
Of trust in love ; and I have found them pure. 

Is love the guerdon then ? Is love the prize ? 

It is ! It is ! We find it in the skies. 

And here on earth 'tis all that will endure. 



84 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

All things for love. All things in some divine 
And wish'd for way, conspire, as Nature knows, 
To some great good. Where'er a daisy grows 
There grows a joy. The forest-trees combine 
To talk of peace when mortals would repine ; 
And he is false to God who flouts the rose. 



LETTER X. 

A RETROSPECT. 



LETTER X. 



A RETROSPECT. 



I walk again beside the roaring- sea 
And once again I harken to the speech 
Of waves exulting on the madden'd beach. 
A sound of awful joy it seems to me, 
A shuddering sound of God's eternity, — 
Telling of things bevond the sage's reach. 

ii. 

I walk alone. I see the bounding waves 

Curl'd into foam. I watch them as they leap 
Like wild sea-horses loosen'd from the deep. 
And well I know that they have seen the graves 
Of shipwreck'd sailors ; for Disaster paves 
The fearful fields where reapers cannot reap. 

in. 

Out there, in islands where the summer sun 

Goes down in tempest, there are loathsome things 
That crawl to shore, and flap unsightly wings. 
But here there are no monsters that can run 
To catch the limbs of bathers ; no '! not one ; 
And here the wind is harmless when it stings. 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST, 



IV. 






There is a glamour all about the bay, 

As if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here. 
The sands are golden, and the rocks appear 
Crested with silver ; and the breezes play 
Snatches of song they humm'd when far away, 
And then are hush'd, as if from sudden fear. 



v. 

They think of thee. They hunt ; they meditate. 
They will not quit the shore till they have seen 
The very spot where thou did'st stand serene 
In all thy beauty ; and of me they prate, 
Knowing I love thee. And, like one elate, 
The grand old sea remembers what hath been, 



VI. 

How many hours, how many days we met 
Here on the beach, in that delirious time 
When all the waves appear'd to break in rhyme. 

Life was a joy, and love was like a debt 



Paid and repaid in kisses — good to get, 

And good to lose — unhoarded, yet sublime. 



VII. 






We wander'd here. We saw the tide advance. 
We saw it ebb. We saw the widow'd shore 
Waiting for Ocean with its organ roar, 
Knowing that, day by day through happy chance, 
She would be wooed anew, amid the dance 
Of bridal waves, high-bounding as before. 



LETTER TENTH. THE RETROSPECT. 89 



VIII. 

And I remember how, at flush of morn, 
Thou didst depart alone, to find a nook 
Where none could see thee ; where a lover's look 

Were profanation worse than any scorn ; 

And how I went my way, among the corn, 
To wait for thee beside the Shepherd's Brook 



IX. 

And lo ! from out a cave thou didst emerge, 
Sweet as thyself, the flower of Womankind. 
I know 'twas thus ; for, in my secret mind, 
I see thee now. I see thee in the surge 
Of those wild waves, well knowing that they urge 
Some idle wish, untalk'd-of to the wind. 



I think the beach was thankful to have known 
Thy warm, white body, and the blessedness 
Of thy first shiver ; and I well can guess 
How, when thy limbs were toss'd and overthrown, 
The sea was pleased, and every smallest stone, 
And every wave, was proud of thy caress. 



XI. 

A maiden diving, with dishevell'd hair, 
Sheer from a rock ; a syren of the deep 
Call'd into action, ere a wave could leap 
Breast-high to daunt her ; Daphne, by a prayer, 
Lured from a forest for the sea to bear — 
This were a dream to fill a poet's sleep. 



90 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

This were a thing for Phoebus to have eyed ; 
And he did eye it. Yea, the Deathless One 
Did eye thy beauty. It was madly done. 

He saw thee in the rising of the tide. 

He saw thee well. The truth is not denied : 
The shore was proud to show thee to the sun. 



XIII. 

Never since Venus, at a god's decree, 

Uprose from ocean, has there lived on earth 
A face like thine, a form of so much worth ; 
And nowhere has the moon-obeying sea 
Known such perfection, down from head to knee, 
And knee to foot, since that Olympian birth. 



XIV. 

And, sooth, the moon was anxious to have placed 
Her head beside thee, on the waters bright. 
But she was foil'd; for thou so late at night 
Wouldst not go forth : no ! not to be embraced 
By Nature's Queen, though, round about the waist, 
She would have ring'd thee with her softest light. 



xv. 

Ah me ! had I a lute of sovereign power 

I would enlarge on this, and plainly show , 
That there is nothing like thee here below, — 
Nothing so comely, nothing in its dower 
Of youth and grace, so like a human flower, 
And white withal, and guiltless as the snow. 



LETTER TENTH. A RETROSPECT. 9 1 



XVI. 

For thou art fair as lilies, with the flush 
That roses have while waiting for a kiss ; 
And when thou smilest nothing- comes amiss. 

The earth is glad to see thy dimpled blush. 

Had I the lute of Orpheus I would hush 
All meaner sounds to tell the stars of this. 



XVII. 

I would, I swear, by Pallas' own consent, 
Inform all creatures whom the stars behold 
That thou art mine, and that a pen of gold, 
With ink of fire, though by an angel lent, 
Were all too poor to tell my true content, 

And how I love thee seven times seventy fold. 



XVIII. 

And sure am I that, in the ancient days, 

Achilles heard no voice so passing sweet, 

And none so trancing, none that could compete 

With thine for fervour ; none, in watery ways 

Where Neptune dwelt, so worthy of the praise 

Of Thetis' son, the sure and swift of feet. 



XIX. 

He never met upon the plains of Troy 
Goddess or maiden so divinely fraught. 
Not Helen's self, for whom the Trojans fought, 
Was like to thee. Her love had much alloy, 
But thine has none. Her beauty was a toy, 
But thine's a gem, unsullied and unbought. 



9 2 



LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

And ne'er was seen by poet, in a sweven, 
An eye like thine, a face so fair to see 
As that which makes the sunlight sweet to me. 
Nor need I wait for death, or for the levin 
In yonder cloud, to find the path to Heaven. 
It fronts me here. Tis manifest in thee ! 



LETTER XI. 
FAITH. 



LETTER XI. 



FAITH. 



Now will I sing- to God a song of praise, 

And thank the morning for the light it brings, 
Aye ! and the earth for every flower that springs, 
And every tree that, in the jocund days, 
Thrills to the blast. My voice I will upraise 
To thank the world for every bird that sings. 



ii. 

I will unpack my mind of all its fears. 
I will advance to where the matin fires 
Absorb the hills. My hopes and my desires 
Will lead me safe ; and day will have no tears 
And night no torture, as in former years, 
To warp my nature when my soul aspires. 

in. 

I will endure. I will not strive to peep 
Behind the barriers of the days to come, 
Nor, adding up the figures of a sum, 

Dispose of prayers as men dispose of sleep. 

I cannot count the stars, or walk the deep ; 
But I can pray, and Faith shall not be dumb. 



96 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 

I take myself and thee as mine estate — 

Thee and myself. The world is centred there. 
If thou be well I know the skies are fair ; 
If not, they press me down with leaden weight, 
And all is dark ; and morning comes too late ; 
And all the birds are tuneless in the air. 



I need but thee : thee only. Thou alone 
Art all my joy : a something to the sight 
As grand as Silence, and as snowy white. 
And do thou pardon if I make it known, 
As oft I do, with mine Amati's tone, 
Amid the stillness of the starry night. 



VI. 

Oh, give me pity of thy heart and mind, 
Mine own sweet Lady, if I vex thee now. 
If the repeating of my constant vow 
Be un desired, have pity ! I were blind, 
And deaf and dumb, and mad, were I incline*, 
To curb my feelings when to thee I bow. 

VII. 

Forgive the challenge of my longing lips 
If these offend thee ; and forgive me, too, 
If I perceive, within thine eyes of blue, 
More than I utter— more than, in eclipse, 
A man may note atween the argent tips 
Of frighted Dian whom the Fates pursue. 



LETTER ELEVENTH. FAITH. 97 



VIII. 



It is the thing- I dream of ; 'tis the thing 

We know as rapture, when, with sudden thrill, 
It snares the heart and subjugates the will ; 
I mean the pride, the power, by which we cling 
To natures nobler than the ones we bring-, 
To keep entire the fire we cannot chill. 



IX. 

Coyest of nymphs, my Lady ! whom I seek 
As sailors seek salvation out at sea, 
And poets fame, and soldiers victory, . 
Behold ! I note the blush upon thy cheek, 
The flag of truce that tells me thou art meek 
And soon wilt yield thy fortress up to me. 



It is thy soul ; it is thy soul in arms 

Which thus I conquer. All thy furtive sighs, 
And all the glances of thy wistful eyes, 

Proclaim the swift surrender of thy charms. 

I kiss thy hand ; and tremors and alarms 
Discard, in parting, all their late disguise. 



XL 

They were not foes. They knew me, one and all ; 
They knew I lov'd thee, and they lured me on 
To try my fortune, and to wait thereon 
For just reward. The scaling of the wall 
Was not the meed ; there came the festival, 

And now there comes the crown that I must don. 

7 



98 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 

O my Beloved ! I am king of thee, 

And thou my queen ; and I will wear the crown 
A little moment, for thy love's renown. 
Yea, for a moment, it shall circle me, 
And then be thine, so thou, upon thy knee, 
Do seek the same, with all thy tresses down. 

XIII. 

For woman still is mistress of the man, 

Though man be master. 'Tis the woman's right 
To choose her king, and crown him in her sight. 

And make "him feel the pressure of the span 

Of her soft arms, as only woman can ; 

For, with her weakness, she excels his might. 

XIV. 

It is her joy indeed to be so frail 
That he must shield her ; he of all the world 
Whom most she loves ; and then, if he be hurl'd 
To depths of sorrow, she will more avail 
Than half a senate. Troubles may assail, 
But she will guide him by her lips impearl'd. 

xv. 

A woman clung to Csesar ; he was great, 

And great the power he gain'd by sea and land. 
But when he wrong'd her, when he spurn'd the 
hand 

Which once he knelt to, when he scoffd at Fate, 

Glory dispers'd, and left him desolate ; 

For God remember'd all that first was nlann'd. 



LETTER ELEVENTH. FAITH. 99 



XVI. 



The cannon's roar, the wisdom of the sage, 

The strength of armies, and the thrall of kings- 
All these are weak compared to weaker things. 
Napoleon fell because, in puny rage, 
He wrong'd his house ; and earth became a cage 
For this poor eagle with his batter'd wings. 



XVI T. 

Believe me, Love ! I honour, night and day, 
The name of Woman. 'Tis the nobler sex. 
Villains may shame it ; sorrows may perplex ; 
But still 'tis watchful. Man may take away 
All its possessions, all its worldly sway, 

And yet be worshipp'd by the soul he wrecks. 

XVIII. 

A word of love to Woman is as sweet 
As nectar'd rapture in a golden bowl ; 
And when she quaffs the heavens asunder roll, 

And God looks through. And, from his judgment- 
seat, 

He blesses those who part, and those who meet, 
And those who join the links of soul with soul. 



XIX. 

And are there none untrue ? God knows there are 
Aye, there are those who learn in time the laugh 
That ends in madness — women who for chaff 
Have sold their corn — who seek no guiding-star, 
And find no faith to light them from afar ; 
Of whom 'tis said : " They need no epitaph." 



IOO LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

All this is known ; but lo ! for sake of One 
Who lives in glory — for my mother's sake, 
For thine, and hers, O Love ! — I pity take 

On all poor women. Jesu's will be done ! 

Honour for all, and infamy for none, 
This side the borders of the burning lake. 



LETTER XII. 

VICTORY. 



LETTER XII. 

VICTORY. 
I. 

Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire, 
For thou hast sworn: — as sweetly as a bell 
Makes out its chime — the oath I love to tell, 

The fealty-oath of which I never tire. 

The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre, 

And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell. 

ii. 

The air is fill'd with voices. I have found 
Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy 
Past all belief ; a peace without alloy. 
There is a splendour all about the ground 
As if from Eden, when the world was drown'd, 

Something had come which death could not de- 
stroy. 

in. 

It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent 

A smile from Heaven — as if to-day the clods 
Were lined with silk — the trees divining rods, 

And roses gems for some high tournament. 

I should not be so proud, or so content, 
If I could sup, to-night, with all the gods. 



104 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



IV. 



A shrined saint would change his place with me 
If he but knew the worth of what I feel. 
He is enrobed indeed, and for his weal 

Hath much concern ; but how forlorn is he ! 

How pale his pomp ! He cannot sue to thee, 
But I am sainted every time I kneel. 



v. 



I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the dark 

Had left the hills, and down the beaten road 
I saunter' d forth a mile from mine abode. 
I heard, afar, the watchdogs sudden bark, 
And, near at hand, the tuning of a lark, 
Safe in its nest, but weighted with an ode. 



VI. 

The moon was pacing up the sky serene, 
Pallid and pure, as if she late had shown 
Her outmost side, and fear'd to make it known ; 
And, like a nun, she gazed upon the scene 
From bars of cloud that seemed to stand between, 
And pray'd and smiled, and smiled and pray'd alone. 



VII. 

The stars had fled. Not one remain'd behind 
To warn or comfort ; or to make amends 
For hope delay'd, — for ecstasy that ends 
At dawn's approach. The firmament was blind 
Of all its eyes ; and, wanton up the wind, 

There came the shuddering that the twilight sends. 



LETTER TWELFTH. VICTORY. IO5 



VIII. 

The hills exulted at the Morning's birth ; 

And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run 
Before a king to say the fight is won. 
The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth 
Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in mirth, 



To celebrate the rising of the sun. 



IX. 



And when the soaring lark had done his prayer, 
The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue 
Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two. 
To pause and think, and then did clip the air 
And dropped to earth to claim his guerdon there. 
' ' Thank God ! " I cried, " My dearest dream is true ! 



I was too happy, then, to leap and dance ; 
But I could ponder ; I could gaze and gaze 
From earth to sky and back to woodland ways. 
The bird had thriU'd my heart, and cheer'd my glance, 
For he had found to-day his nest-romance, 

And lov'd a. mate, and crown'd her with his praise. 



XL 

Oh, Love ! my Love ! I would not for a throne, 

I would not for the thrones of all the kings 
Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's wings, 
Or for the nod of Jove when night hath flown, 
Consent to rule an empire all alone. 

No ! I must have the grace of our two rings. 



106 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XII. 



I must possess thee from the crowning curl 
Down to the feet, and from the beaming eye 
Down to the bosom where my treasures lie, 
From blush to blush, and from the rows of pearl 
That light thy smile, I must possess thee, girl, 
And be thy lord and master till I die. 



XIII. 



This, and no less : the keeper of thy fame, 
The proud controller of each silken tress, 
And each dear item of thy loveliness, 
And every oath, and every dainty name 
Known to a bride : a picture in a frame 
Of golden hair, to turn to and caress. 



XIV. 

And though I know thee prone, in vacant hours, 
To laugh and talk with those who circumvent 
And make mad speeches ; though I know the bent 
Of some such men, and though in ladies' bowers 
They brag of swords — I know my proven powers ; 
I know myself and thee, and am content. 



xv. 

I know myself ; and why should I demur ? 

The lily, bowing to the breeze's play, 

Is not forgetful of the sun in May. 
She is his nymph, and with a servitor 
She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her, 

And knows her true, and loves her day by day. 









LETTER TWELFTH. VICTORY. IC>7 



XVI. 

E'en so I thee. O Lady of my heart ! 
O Lady white as lilies on the lea, 
And fair as foam upon the ocean free 

Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart ! 

E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art, 
And with my soul's desire I compass thee. 



XVII. 

For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense 
Of true endowment, and a bride indeed 
Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need : 
To be a beacon when the air is dense, 
A bower of peace, a life-long recompense — 
This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed. 



XVIII. 

And what is Man the while ? And what his will? 

And what the furtherance of his earthly hope ? 

To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope 
A drowning sailor ; all his blood to spill 
For one he loves, to keep her out of ill — 

This is the will of Man, and this his scope. 



XIX. 

'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon 
It can be wild, and keep away from home 
A thousand shins — and lash itself to foam — 
And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon — 
And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone 
Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome. 



Io8 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. 



XX. 

This is the will of Man, and this is mine. 

But lo ! I love thee more than wealth or fame, 
More than myself, and more than those who came 

With Christ's commission from the goal divine. 

Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine, 
I cling to thee, my Life ! as fire to flame. 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 



CANTO FIRST. 

Ye who have known the pangs that lovers know, 
The tears, the tremors, and the sovereign glow 
Of some enthralment fresh from Fairyland, 
And, therewithal, the sprites, who in a band 
Uphold, unseen, the courtship of true men, — 

ye bright souls ! for whom, with faltering pen, 

1 trace, e'en now, this tale of love and pride, 
Accept, I pray you, safe and sanctified, — 
My lovers twain who fared not righteously ! 
For you have loved as they, in their degree, 

And hoped as they, and sighed as they have done, 
And sought the folly which is barred to none, 
But stands and smiles and w r aits for us alway. 
And lo ! I note the things, that, day by day, 
You guard and foster with enravished eyes, 
And how you count the toys of your emprize : — 
The keepsake flower — the curl that's passion-dear— 
The scented scroll that's read from year to year. 
And while I note these things and muse thereon, 
I think of those sweet souls beyond the dawn 
Whose love was flame. O deathless ! O ye dead ! 
Are ye well met ? Have ye no tears to shed, 



I I 2 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

Not e'en for joy ? Is love not worth a kiss 
Up there in Heaven ? A mere seraphic bliss, 
Fit for a saint ? God help us then, each one ! 
And you my brothers — you, this side the sun, 
Who love true-love — believe this much of me, 
That I have worshipp'd Love upon my knee 
And almost fear'd it. I have trembled too, 
In my much joy ! A glove — a ribbon's hue — 
Have moved me strangely ; and in lonely hours, 
In empty chambers, and in starlit bowers, 
I have as 'twere enthroned a sainted Grief 
And paid it homage. Have you found relief 
In tears and dreams, — as I have done full oft, — 
And not been proud or perjured, when, aloft, 
A lark has seemed to trill the loved-one's name ? 
I pray you all, by Love's resistless flame, 
Accept of me this tale which now is told. 
For there's no shame in Truth ; and Hope's a-cold 
That has no dreams to feed it 

Far away 
There stood, in years gone by, athwart the spray 
That dashed the sea-born crags, a lordly tower ; 
And, down the valley — offshoot of its dower — 
A lowly cot embowered in such a nook 
As lured Apollo when, with pipe and crook, 
He wooed Acantha. And within its walls 
A nymph was sheltered whom a Legend calls 
Gladys the Singer — one of those elect 
And fond fair women whom the world has decked 
With Dead Sea laurels. 

He who owned the land 
Was young and rich and lavish of his hand, 
And well he knew the bower, aye ! as the kite 
May know the dove-cot ; and a-down the height 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 117, 

He strode one day, one lustrous autumn-day, 

Brain-sick with fancies such as warp the sway 

Of Eros' children ; and his steps he turned 

To where the cottage stood amid the burned 

And withering foliage. But, beside the same, 

He paus'd in doubt ; and, with a kindling shame, 

Half glad, half sad, he heard a matin song 

Sung, as it seem'd, by One who did belong 

To angel-choirs. And as he drain'd the draught 

Of that sweet voice — as soul and body quaff d 

The nectarous notes — a something from his eyes 

Fell like a film; arid all the earth and skies 

And all the frondage of the forest way 

Re-took the raptures of the month of May. 

And in his thought he roamed beside the stream 

Where she had led him — where the golden gleam 

Of her bright hair had crown'd the tender grace 

Of her lithe body — and her matchless face 

Had made him mad ! For, vision-like, he stood 

Alone with her in heaven, and found it good, — 

Found it the one sweet thing of all things known, 

To sit with her at twilight, all alone, 

In halcyon spots — the universe their own. 

A bowery nook, a sea-side lonely cave, 

These were his Heaven, and more he did not crave ! 

But now he loitered near the very shrine 

Of this lov'd soul, and heard her voice divine 

Peal out supreme. — He open'd with a smile 

The querulous door, and stood, a breathing-while, 

Straight in her sight. 

She rush'd into his arms 
Tear-lit with joy, and glowing in the charms 
Of white surrender ; "O my Love ! my Love ! 
So true, so gentle, so insured above 



114 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 



All time and distance ! I have yearn'd for thee 

As earth for summer, as the lonely sea 

For midnight stars ; and now thou'rt here at lasl 



I 



to cling" to thee, and hold thee fast, 



mean 

Aye ! as a chain might do, I mean to cling 
Fast round thy soul, and sphere thee like a ring. 
What ! not one word? And gloomy, too, and chill, 
On this bright day ? O Roland ! thou art ill, 
And wilt not tell me ! Thou'rt convulsion-pale, 
And in thy gaze I read the dismal tale 
Of some foreboding. O my dearest one ! 
My life, my death, my All beneath the sun ! 
In God's good name I charge thee make it clear 
What makes thee sad ? And if thou need a tear 
Seek it in me, — for I have learnt the way 
To shed more tears than thou wilt need to-day." 

"Nay, Gladys, nay!" with smiles he answered 
her, 
"'Tis much ; 'tis nothing ! Some unwonted stir 
In household matters. — Words are empty things; 
Why should they hurt ? If Faithfulness ha4 wings 
'Twould quit me now ; 'tis here, and thou art She. 
Nay, sit thee down, and I will yield to thee 
My sure confession." 

Gladys, with a look 
Half frown, half smile, obey'd him ; yet she shook 
As shakes an aspen when the winds are hush'd, 
And all the meadow-lands are sunset-flushed. 
And he ? Remorse was with him ; and apart 
He stood absorb'd. Should he consult his heart? 
Or serve ambition ? He had won the soul 
Of this sweet woman, and to his control 
His words had sway'd her. Should he put to scorn 
The threats and frets and sneers which, all the morn, 
Had marr'd his peace? — Aye ! should he, as a knight 



GLADYS THE SINGER. II5 

In olden time had done for his delight, 

Accept, revere, enshrine, and re-endow 

This blue-eyed wonder with his marriage- vow ? 

He still'd a sigh, and turn'd to her, and spake : — 

v 'Thou know'st, O Gladys ! for thine honour's sake, 

And for thyself that art as Heaven to me, 

I would not break the oath which unto thee 

My lips have sworn. But I, too long I fear, 

Have stood between thy life and that career 

Which waits for thee, — as Silence in the dales 

Waits, after dark, for songs of nightingales ! 

I should have warn'd thee. In my heart I knew 

That tedious hours, and sorrows, not a few, 

Would be thy meed, if here thou didst prolong 

Thy tell-tale absence from the world of song." 

She heard abash'd. Was he indeed possess'd 
Of foregone knowledge, though so late confess'd? 
Or was he wearied of their sylvan bliss ? 
She mused an instant in the fear of this ; 
And then, without a sign, she droop'd her head 
And wept outright, — such tears as children shed 
When, 'mid a storm, they hear their parents pray. 

Women are stronger than we care to say, 
And when they weep the}'' conquer more than men 
With sword or sceptre ; and they bind us then 
With weak, warm hands, as with a festal wreath. 
Let those who draw the sword from out its sheath, 
And those who sit and stare on gilded thrones, 
Beware of Woman ! She, in all the zones 
And all the courts of earth, and all its bowers, 
Is queen elect of all the golden hours. 
She is the ruler whom the rulers know, 
And when she wills a thing, in joy or woe, 
In health or sickness, or remorse or sin, 
The high-born Knight must bow to her therein. 



n6 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 



'Twas so to-day when, with a mute caress, 
She spake her trust, and clothed in courtliness, 
Made known her fears, — and this with such a mien, 
And such sweet fervour, and so bright a sheen 
Of pout and blush, that, for a moment's space, 
He gazed, relenting, on her radiant face, 
And loath' d himself ; and trembled at her glance, 
And vow'd to God that his was evil chance 
To do this thing, and in his very shame 
To fear to name it, though in Honour's name. 
He eyed her face, the brighter for the rush 
Of those quick tears ; and kiss'd away the blush 
That warm'd her cheek as with a rose's stain, 
And then re-kiss'd it to its place again, 
So weak she seem'd, and yet so strong withal, 
And so exacting, that, within her thrall, 
Man as he was, he felt the force in him 
Melt into misery, and a tear bedim 
His traitorous gaze ; for he was one of those 
Who fear the scoffs of beauty more than blows. 
But she could mark the menace and the drift 
Of thoughts unuttered, and her soul could sift 
Sound from the sense thereof ; and thus she spake : 
"O Roland ! O my master ! for thy sake 
I have been stabb'd by doubts and lain awake 
Night after night, to dream of wayward things, — 
A moth's lament, a flower with folded wings, 
An April daisy turn'd into a screen 
For elfin lovers, and the face serene 
Of my dead sister, who, though like to me 
As flakes of snow are like the foam at sea, 
Would thrust me back, full soon, could she behold 
My fall'n estate, and all my promise-gold 
Turn'd into dust, — I mean the pride I had 
In mine own self, ere doting made me mad. 



GLADYS THE SINGER. HJ 

Ah, gracious God ! how glad were I to pass 
Young as I am, beneath the churchyard grass, 
If, but an instant ere I went that way, 
I might re- win the right I had to pray ! '"' 

But he, soft-smiling, gazed on her, and stood 
Silent apace, as one, within a wood, 
Haunted by pixies at the swooning-hour 
Of birds and bushes, when the moon has power. 
Aye ! as a man entranced when night is done, 
May note the world's betrothal to the sun, 
E'en so he watch'd her, with a pent up-sigh, 
And thus addressed her: — "Thou'rt too young to 

die, 
And much too fair. Who knows it more than thou ? 
Nay, hear me, Gladys ? for I lie not now, 
Nor have I lied to thee at any time, 
Or wrong'd in thought the holy wedding chime, 
Or spurn'd an oath, or fear'd a promise-ring. 
No ! I have thought no lie, nor would I bring 
Sorrow to thee or shame, or make thee rue 
The rapt, confession of thine eyes of blue, 
When first I saw thee in the Long-Ago 
Of last year's May, — as blameless as the snow 
Which makes its eyrie on the mountain's crest. 
Beauty is thine, and Music, and the quest 
For power and wealth, and all the joys of fame, 
And all the rhapsodies that round a name 
Burst into splendour to possess a world ! 
Glory is thine, and, on thy lips impearl'd, 
A smile so sweet, so lustrous in its mirth, 
That none hath known, till now, upon the earth, 
A dream so true, a joy so fair to see." 

" A dream, — a joy ? Ah, thou canst flatter me ! " 
She rippled forth in answer to this speech, 
But I am here, to hide me, out of reach, 






I I 8 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

If thou upbraid me — as I know thou wilt — 
For too much trust, — itself a kind of guilt. 
Am I attaint, or guiltless in thy sight, 
For my day-dreams ? " 

He answered her aright : — 
" I am not worthy of so proud a boon 
As thy great love ; for not the sun and moon, 
And not the stars, in all their course, have known 
Such gem-like joy ; and I would fain atone, 
If thou permit me, by a prompt assent 
To all thy dreams for Art's aggrandisement ; 
Aye ! have thee robed, and see thee crown'd again, 
As Music's Queen, — return'dto her domain." 

''Music's domain?" she cried. "Nay, that is 
done. 
But lo ! I love thee as a kneeling nun 
Loves, in the circuit of her little cell, 
The pictured face of Christ who conquered Hell. 
E'en so I love thee, Sweetheart ! and I swear, 
By God's own mouth, and by His auburn hair, 
That I will slay thee if thou'rt false to me ! " 
This said, she flush' d as red as roses be 
And sprang to him, and quavered in her voice. 
" O Love ! " she cried, ft O Roland ! O my Choice ! 
Sorrow be mine, not thine, if I offend. 
It seems I vex thee. Shall I make an end, 
Here, in this place, with this thy jewell'd knife, 
At once of loving and of loveless life? 
Winter is wild. The storm may want a wife. 
And I am friendless as a foundering ship ! 
The hours recoil ; the monstrous moments slip 
Fast through my fingers, while I count the beads 
Of my poor life, — the rosary of my deeds 
Good, bad, and selfish, and the joy therein 
Which oft I found, undaunted by the sin — 



GLADYS THE SINGER. I 10 

If sin it be — which brought me to thy side. 

I lov'd thee, Roland ! as, at eventide, 

The lowly daisy, in her hood of green, 

Loves the set sun, — and keeps her face unseen 

Through all the drowsy hours of sainted night, 

Till dawn restores the Lov'd One to her sight. 

Oh ! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre, 

Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire. 

I can be made to feel the pangs of death, 

And yet be constant to the quest of breath. — 

Our poor, pale trick of living through the lies 

We name Existence, when that 'something' dies 

Which we call Honour. Many and many a way 

Can I be struck, or fretted, night and day, 

In some new fashion, or condemned the while 

To take for food the semblance of a smile, 

The left-off rapture of a slain caress, 

And ' Yes ' for ' No,' and ' No ' perchance for ' Yes/ 

Ah ! well I see, of comfort there is none, 

And no completion of the faith begun, 

When moon and star, and swift-ascending sun, 

Brought joy to me, and made me, as I wis, 

The thing I am, soul-famish'd for a kiss."' 

He rais'd her hand, and kiss'd it, as a king, 
For some cold vow, may do so staid a thing. 
But as he kiss'd her, — careful as the snow 
Which falls on flowers, — she frown'd, and murmur'd 

low : — 
"Too kind, — good Sir ! " and dashed away a tear 
And waved him back, as heedful to appear 
Nor grave nor gay, nor bashful in her mind ; 
And, far away, the wailing autumn wind 
Sobb'd o'er the sea, alone and un confined, 
Like some poor lover whom the nights and days 
Have robb'd alike of triumph and of praise. 



1 20 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

" O friend ! " he answer'd, " I am much to blame. 
I taught thee this ; I taught thee how to name 
Sorrow and sin and suffering ; and for thee 
I brought myself to sue, aye ! on my knee 
To my proud sire. O Gladys ! wouldst thou guess 
His rude retort, his smile of bitterness ? 
He curs'd thee, Gladys ! 

With a frown she drew 
A quick, hot breath, and look'd him through and 

through, 
And then replied : — "I gave thee all I had, — 
My youth, my truth, my life, and all things glad, 
All thoughts of love, all hopes of peace to come, 
And only kept away my sorrows' sum, — 
My tears, and fears, and sighs, and all the shame 
That burnt the bays of what I deem'd my fame. 
If still remember d in the world of men, 
If honour'd still beyond this desert-glen 
Where now we've met, I care not. I am dead 
To all delights with which my soul I fed, 
And all ambitions in the realm of art, 
And all the fond desires that were a part 
Of my young life, before I came to thee. " 

"What need," he answer'd, " here beside the sea, 
Where Art and Nature have the world for friend, 
What need, my Love ! of tears that come to end 
Full soon for lovers, —and for women first ? 
What need hast thou for rancour, or for thirst 
Of things withheld unkindly — who shall say ! — 
Or hid from sight, or haply kept away 
For some good purpose ? " And he bent his head 
And moved his lips, and, with a word unsaid, 
Look'd at her straight. 

"O God ! " she stammer'd out, 
"Can such things be? Nay, Sir, beyond a doubt, 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 121 

You men are just ; but, by your tardy leave, 

We women, too, may learn, while we deceive, 

To preach like you ! — 'Twas Adam tempted Eve ! 

He bade her eat. He tempted her to fall, 

And then denounced her ! " And, with this recall 

Of her past life, she lifted up her face, 

As one who sees a snake a-near the place 

She thought secure ; and flash'd a proud disdain 

On his mute wonder and the look of pain 

With which he eyed her ; and she spake again : — 

" Men have their rights, I know, and thou hast thine, 

To break the bowl, and squander all the wine ! 

But tell me, quick, thy father's final word, 

And what, in shame, to-day thine ears have heard ? " 

His faltering lips made answer to her quest : — 
" He was unjust, and stern, and ill at rest, 
But clear, emphatic, certain of his power. 
' Thou must dismiss, ' he said, ' this very hour, 
All thoughts of love till I permit the same. ' 
And, with a cold aspersion on thy fame, 
He wrung my heart with words I will not name." 

Sudden as fire she started to her feet : 
"And thou ? " she cried, " Thine answer to the heat 
Of this distemper? " Like a craven man 
He hung his head, and blush'd as he began 
Some stuttering words. " I am controll'd," he said, 
" By claims of kindred, which the quick and dead 
Alike have bow'd to. For my father's sake, 
For mine and his, I must at once partake 
Of his fell purpose, and restore thy troth, 
And claim of thee mine own mistaken oath. 
This, and no less." 

" No less ? " she swift replied. 
"This, — and no less? Well, well, I must have died 
Some time to-day ! I must have met my death 



122 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

Some minutes since, or, with thy cruel breath, 

Thou hadst not dared, — in presence of my corse, — 

To rack my soul with word of this divorce. 

But leave me quickly, for the dead are proud, 

And murder'd oaths are safest in a shroud ! 

I hate thee, Roland ! and my hate is such 

I would not soil my finger with a touch 

Of thy white body, though to touch it now 

Made me an Empress. O thou traitor, thou ! 

Traitor to me and mine. — if mine there be 

In days hereafter, — thou sad-to-see, 

And dark and dread pale spectre of the thing 

I lov'd and fear'd and reverenced as a king ! 

Nay, I have eyes. I see thee. I can trace 

The coward blush that lurks about thy face, 

And fears its colour, — fears to show itself, 

Lest it should wear the livid look of pelf, 

Or mark thy cheek with some detested blot. 

I know thy purpose, though thou tell it not : — 

To wed hereafter, for Ambition's sake, 

A high-born dame with gold enough to slake 

Thy thirst of power. " 

He made a quick retort : 
" No bride for me, in good or ill report, — ■ 
In all the round of all my nights and days." 
But with a withering look she met his gaze, 
As she would stab him with that very knife 
Whereof she spake, ere yet a word of strife 
Had sprung between them ; and she raised her head 
And flash'd contempt. " Thou art some serf," she said, 
" Stol'n in the night from some marauder's shed, 
And made to take the place, — a' place belied, — 
Of son and heir, — a castle's foolish pride ! 
But One who knows all things beneath the sun 
Hath frowned on thee, and sees what thou hast done ; 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 23 

And all thy heart is bared to Him to-day, 

And all thou say'st, — and all thou still wouldst say." 

She paused an instant with a weary thought 
That he might scatter all her doubts to nought, — 
All her distress, and all the throbs of pain 
That work'd within her ; and she spake again : — 
'• thou dried soul whom long I deem'd a man, 
Monarch of men, and mine for all the span 
Of our two lives, in this world and the next, 

thou weak boaster of a brainless text, 
Fitter to fill a trench than be the curse 

Of one more summer, or to move me worse 
Than now thou mov'st me ! Nay, I hate thee not. 
Who hates the worm ? Who hates the canker-blot 
On some poor tree r I see thee as thou art. 

1 sound thy depths. I read thee to the heart. 
I find thee shallow as a clamorous rill 

That wends its way, uncall'd for, down a hill ! " 
As thus she spake, his face from white to red, 
And red to white, as of a man half dead, 
Grew famine-featured while he look'd at her, 
And own'd the mastery, and the fitful spur 
Of her wild anger ; and was nigh to sue 
For absolution, as his passion-due. 
But. like a standard-pole whose flag is down, 
Or like the base usurper of a crown, 
He stood erect, and, clothed in his deceit, 
Eyed her aghast, as one who would retreat 
In some sleek way, if, ere proceeding thence, 
He might be pardoned for his love's offence. 

' ' One word ! " she answer'd to his mute appeal, 
"One further word ! " And then, as she would reel, 
Or swoon, or die, or do some deadly thing, 
She clutch'd the air, as men at sea may cling, 
Wreck'd as they are, to some discarded rope. 



124 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

She ached towards him with a kind of hope, 
And then dismiss'd it, and in accents weak, 
And tears held back, continued thus to speak : — 

' ' Thou knows t all women well, — thou oft hast sa'd ! 
Thou know'st not me. Go, know thyself instead, — 
What man thou art, how false and how unjust 
To Nature's test, and Knighthood's holy trust. 
I lov'd thee not ! I lov'd a foolish dream 
That look'd like thee. I saw thee in the gleam 
Of some bright thought, and deem'd thee such an one 
As minstrels sing of, when they drape the sun, 
And make him Man, and crown him with a crown ! 
Thou wast the flower of all the world's renown 
In my glad sight ; but now, to see thee there, 
I seem to see the wraith of some despair, — 
A thing so rude, so robber-like in plan, 
I would not have thee for my serving-man ! 
Aye, aye, 'tis so ! — I swear by God's delight 
When with His hand He parted day and night, 
And by the stars, and by the saints of heaven, 
That I repent me of my girlhood given 
To thy rude touch ! All evil thee beset, 
Thou blight of morning ! All remorse and shame 
Possess thy soul, and sap the ancient fame 
Of thy great house ! I was too frail a thing, 
Too quickly won — too impotent to sting — 
A fair-hair' d frailty with attractive eyes, — 
A doll, — a puppet, — something from the skies 
For thy caressing, and belike in time 
For thy denouncing, as a minute's crime 
Done up in silk ! But should'st thou, for thy peace, — 
If peace it be, — should'st thou, ere autumn cease, 
Require a toy, a heart to play withal, 
An unwed wife to answer to thy call, — 
Say I was proud, and spurn'd thee from my side ; 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 25 

Say that the love between us snapp'd and died, 

As dies a tune, as snaps the strained chord 

Of some wild harp, — too weak to be restored. 

Nay ! say this, too : I claim no part in thee, 

For I would liefer trust a wave at sea, 

A pent-up fire, a raging famish'd bear, 

Than thy false heart !— I lov'd thy raven hair ; 

I hate it now. I lov'd thy hand so white, 

Thy face, thy form, — thy flattery, day and night, — 

And thy dark eyes and alabaster brow ; 

Be God my witness how I hate them now ! " 

He stood transfix'd ; he quiver'd as he heard. 
He made as he would speak some ruffian word, 
Some word uncased by torture from his soul, 
Beyond the boundaries of his blood's control. 
But with a groan he conquered this intent, 
And smiled on her, as some reflex is sent 
From westward skies, at waning of the day, 
When winds of winter spurn the clouds away. 
" Let us be friends," he urged, with lifted head, 
" For Love's sweet sake, for Love that was not dead 
That night in June ! — for Love that lured us on 
To deeds that wreck'd us on the shores of dawn 1 
E'en for that love, I say, be generous now, 
And grant some liking, though the Fates allow 
Small time for rapture. Say ! shall this be done, 
And we forget the dream that made us One ? " 
* ' Hence ! Quit my sight ! " she cried, as with her hand 
She waved him back — white-heated, fair and grand, 
As some sweet lady whom a clown has vex'd — 
"Away, — thou boor ! " 

One moment, and the next, 
He stood full-height ; and then, with half a stare, 
And half a scowl, out-saunter' d in the air. 
' ' She must be mad, " he thought ; and, slow, retraced 



126 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

His measured steps, athwart the shingly waste. 
But she leapt foward, like a stricken deer, 
With one great cry, brow-beaten in her fear, 
And yet transformed to something half divine. 
For Love had torn the darkness for a sign, 
And, sharp within her soul, a something stirr'd 
Like wounded wings of some imprison'd bird. 

' ' Come back ! Come back ! " she cried, and open 
flung 
The near-shut window, where the roses hung 
In their torn wreaths, " Come back and learn from me 
What no man knows, — what haply unto thee 
May bring content." But, shuddering tamely there, 
The wild cry fell ; and through her gold-like hair 
Her face look'd out, as, on a winter's night, 
The icy moon looks down through vapours white. 
' ' Come back ! " she cried to that retreating form - 
Which heard her not ; and weird, and wan, and warm, 
She craned her neck to note the path he took, 
And sway'd herself, as sways beside a brook 
A lonely willow on a breathless day ; 
And with her lips she made as she would say : — 
" I was thy faithful wife, though wed in sport, 
As wives were wedded once in Arthur's court. 
Yet heed my plea ! Two hearts are knit in one 
In my poor frame." 

But utterance found she none ; 
And, ere ecstatic she could shape the words, 
And waft them forth as Summer wafts the birds, 
For joy, for memory, or for griefs control, 
Her face convuls'd and o'er her tottering soul 
The storm-cloud burst ; and tears shut out the light 

And so it came to pass, in her despite, 
That he ignored the secret, sad but sweet, 
Wherewith she ached at every pulse's beat. 



GLADYS THE SINGER. I ?>] 

And, later on, the breezes told the flowers 
How One who must have wept for many hours 
Fled through the wood. It was some sprite, — they 

said, — 
A nymph, a naiad, — One who, as she fled, 
O'er-ruled her grief, and watch'd, with aching sight, 
The blood-red moon go down into the night. 



12:3 GLADYS THE SINGER. 



CANTO SECOND. 

Again the spring-time with its songs of love 
Had come and gone ; again the cooing dove 
Had called its nestling on the sheenful breeze ; 
Again the waves of the careering seas 
Had storm'd the coast with shouts of loud acclaim, 
What time the winter- wind, in ocean's name, 
Hurled out defiance ; and the queen of heaven, 
The maiden- moon, entranced or in a sweveu, 
Had paced the sky, from autumn unto spring, 
Unclaim'd of men, uncrowned of any king, 
And only lov'd aright by loveless maids. 
And once again the rapture of the glades, — 
The rout and revel of the spring-decades, — 
Had fill'd and thrill'd the air with such delight 
As makes a tourney of the day and night 
When gale confronts with gale at equinox, 
And all the cliffs, and all the seaward rocks 
Have thuds of joy ! Again the forest yearn'd 
For sight of summer, and the roses burn'd 
On many a hedge, whereon the mounting sun 
Pat forth his trophies. For the world had won 
Full right to cling thereto, as golden-fleeced, 
The rapt Hyperion leapt from out the East. 
Earth and the sky had call'd him ; and the land 
Had smiled, expectant ; and the ocean-strand 






GLADYS THE SINGER. I 29 

Had bared her bosom to the sun's caress : 
And wind and wave had counted tress on tress 
Of his long hair, and made a chant thereof 
Warm, aye ! and wanton as the songs of love 
Which sibyls sing. And soft the breezes crept 
From rock to rock, where over-night had slept 
A white sea-fog, and where, in summer days, 
The blue hare-bell would sound the Maker's praise 
In chimes unheard by pedants, but aright 
Guessed-at by bards. — The hill was all alight 
With blazing furze, that keeps the sun in sight, 
And seems to thrill with sunshine after dark ; 
And, far away, the lilting of the lark, 
The prophet-bird, the singer of the dawn, 
Invested Heaven, as if its mate had gone 
Straight through the sky, and must be ravish'd back. 

And lo ! dishevell'd on the upland track, 
A weary woman with a load of joy : — • 
A Phceban gift — a bright-eyed baby-boy, 
With clustering curls ! And she who bore the child 
Was fair and comely, though with something wild 
In her blue eyes, and something in her gait 
That spoke of watchfulness endured of late, 
As if the ghost of terror had pursued 
Her faltering steps, and agony, at feud 
With fairer things, andsapp'd within her mind 
The girlish thoughts that link'd her to her kind. 

" Here let us rest," she cried, as on a knoll 
She bent her down, " and I will ease my soul 
Of half its weight, and ease my body, too, 
Of its fond burden. For I tell thee true, 
Mine own sweet babe ! that, in this heart of mine, 
Are tears unnumber'd, sharper than the brine 
Of salt sea- winds, and fiercer than the flames 
Of twenty fires; and there are fitful names, — 

9 



I3O GLADYS THE SINGER. 

If I could find them, — for my many blames. 

Dost see, my Roland ! yonder on the ridge, 

This side the forest, near the broken bridge, 

That princely tower ? The keys thereof are ours, — 

If we demand them, — all the roofs and towers, 

Yea, all the landscape, all the shining land, 

All ours for ever, if we lift a hand. 

But shall we lift it ? Shall we make appeal 

To one who hates us — one who will not kneel 

For God's high quittance — and beyond his pelf, 

Hath nought to love, or pray for, but himself ?" 

While thus she parley 'd with the tender elf 
Who call'd her " Mother," and was all she had, 
This side eternity, to keep her glad, 
Shudders oppressed her, and there came a sound 
Of leaves and twigs in ear-shot of the mound 
Where she was throned. And lo ! towards her came 
A faggot-woman, old and cold and lame, 
Who seem'd the ghost of some dead winter's day 
Return'd to life, to lead the world astray, 
And mar good thoughts. 

The beldam looked at her. 
And snarled, aggressive, as a famished cur 
Which no man loves. "Wilt do a deed for me," 
The girl inquired, "and earn a golden fee 
This happy morn ? I see thou wilt do this ; 
For thou art pleased, as when a dream of bliss 
Comes to a child. Aye ! aye ! the world is sad. 
I know 'tis so ! But gold will make thee glad." 
With this she tore a leaflet from a book, 
And wrote as follows, while her bosom shook 
With fears untold : — 

" If thou remember now 
A dream long dead, — a broken, foolish vow, — 
A poor, pale ghost who, in the years gone by, 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 131 

Was known as Gladys, — quit thy turret high, 

And seek, this day, the place thou knowest well : 

The Witches' Cave, the ante-room of Hell, — 

If Heaven and Hell be one thing and the same, 

And hope a snare, and misery but a name ! 

I have a lustrous jewel here with me 

Which bears thy mark ; a thing so fair to see 

That many a man of pride would sell for this 

All things he hath, and all his chance of bliss 

In worlds far off. But yet, oh ! read me right, 

And heed me well. This is no fools delight, 

And no poor treasure from the marts of men, 

That now I speak of; for a poet's pen, 

A painter's brush, a sculptor's art divine, 

Alone were fit to vaunt this gem of mine. 

A rapturous burst of music at a shrine 

Might make it clear, and earth would understand ! 

But I must place it in a surer hand 

Than this I write with ; and I pray thee now, 

If thou remember still a midnight vow 

Which once was thine — which God and I alone 

Heard thee pronounce, albeit in under-tone — 

Come with the dame ; but come as comes a man 

Who clears a path for Caesar in the van 

Of utmost truth." 

Herewith she tied the scrip, 
And kiss'd it fondly, with revering lip, 
As one, in prayer, may kiss a holy thing, — - 
And therewithal she smiled as dryad Spring 
May smile on Winter when the months are young, 
And re-addressed, with her persuading tongue, 
That aged dame : — "Go, take with thee, I pray, 
This scroll I give thee, and in haste convey 
To yonder tower. Its master knows I'm here, 
And he will come to where the sea-weed sere 



132 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

Thrills to the blast, and hisses to the sea : — 

But make no further talk of mine or me, 

Save this alone : — Thou'st seen me on my way 

To find a cavern where, from day to day, 

Strange things were plann'd. He knows what I 

would say ! 
Hence, then, and quickly ; and return with him." 

The ancient woman, cold in every limb 
And twitch'd by palsy, with a feeble laugh, 
Made mouths at her, and fumbling with her staff, 
Did name high God ! The world's a-full of such : — 
Women and men, unseemly to the touch, 
Unkempt, uncanny, girt about with woe, 
And smirch'd with mud, who yet are proud to know 
Some far-off Duke, who threats them with a rod 
And claims their toil. E'en so she talk'd of God ! 

But when she'd gone, that other caught the boy 
Quick in her arms, as one may catch a toy, 
And caird it " King," and " Sweetheart, " and enlaced 
Her fair, fond arms around him, tender-faced ; 
And he, whose eyes in rapture seem'd to float, 
Caught at the chain that pended from her throat, 
And played therewith, and seiz'd, and open'd wide, 
A golden trinket, where a face of pride 
Look'd out in smiles, as faces in a dream 
Invest the darkness and absorb the beam 
Of some set sun ; and thus that woman fair 
Resumed her talk, and covered with her hair 
The baby-face which look'd into her own : — 
" He is thy father, child ! though all unknown, 
Thine unkind father who, in summers flown, 
Made me his plaything ! Oh, he'll make thee great, 
And treat thee as a lord of high estate ! 
There ! weep not, Sweet ! My tears are foolish ones. 
All hopes are sound ; all fathers love their sons, 










GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 33 

And thine will love thee when he comes to-day 
And scans thy face, and mine so far away ! " 

These latter words she spoke beneath her breath, 
And as she paus'd a pallor, like to death, 
Came o'er her cheek. There seem'd to surge to her 
The far-off sound of some sea-sepulchre, 
The thud of waters, and the thrill of tides 
In lonely haunts, where Ocean over-rides 
Her ghastly wrecks. 

She swoon 'd into herself, 
With eyes out-staring to a broken shelf 
Of piled-up cloud, on which the sun had smiled ; 
And then, with feverous haste, she snatched the child 
Forth from its couch among the flow'rets fair, 
And bore it seaward, and was quickly there 
In that same nook whereof she wrote the name — 
The Witches' Cave — the landmark of a shame 
She lov'd more dearly now the worst was known 
Than halcyon bards, or kings upon a throne 
Love their dominions ; and within the niche, 
All poor with weeds, she placed the jewel rich 
Whereof she spake. 

The child into a trance 
Of loveliest sleep had fall 'n ; and now, askance 
She gazed upon it, as she wrapp'd it round 
In her red scarf, and laid a packet bound 
With golden thread beside it ; and, with tears, 
Kiss'd it in silence — lest the dimpled fears, 
There hush'd in slumber, should awake to pry 
And thwart her purpose. 

Ah ! 'twere sweet to die, 
To save from drowning, or to snatch from fire 
This life-long treasure ; but, in penance dire, 
To leave it thus ! To thrust it on its sire, 
And then to shun it ? And for what ? A dream, — 



134 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

A chance, — a hope, — a certitude, — a beam 

Of far-off light ! " He will be poor," she thought, 

" If I live on ; but rich, and richly taught, 

And fondly cared for, if I die for him. 

So let me fare, O God ! where none may dim 

Dead people's eyes, and let Thy will be will'd, 

E'en as the tempest in the night was still' d 

At Thy Son's coming ! " And she bow'd her head, 

And wept afresh, as weeps, when day is dead, 

A sunset cloud ; and, shuddering and abyss'd 

In her own soul, re-touch'd the child and kiss'd, 

With desolate dull moaning of wild pain ; 

And, like a woman with the curse of Cain 

Full in her heart, out-leapt into the sun 

And sought the ocean. 

All her hair undone, 
And pale and proud, with bosom-folded hands, 
She stood in water on the woeful sands; 
And, ankle-deep, survey'd the glittering sea, 
What time the wind uprose upon the lea. 
" O God ! " she murmur'd, as she waded in, 
" Take Thou my soul ; absolve me of my sin, 
And make me fit to join, when I am gone, 
The ranks of those who wait, unfrown'd upon, 
In deathful shades, in hope to reconcile 
Their clamorous past with Thine eternal smile ! " 

She turned her face to shoreward, and awhile 
Shed tears that scathed her, as they struggled through 
Their eyelids' fringe ; and, for a space or two, 
Paused there inert. "I will be brave," she said, 
And journey'd on, "I will confront the dead, 
In true-love fashion ! I will smile to-day, 
And sing the songs of madness born in May, 
The mirth of madness when the world was young, 
And flower and field and ford had found a tongue ; 






GLADYS THE SINGER. I35 

And each created thing had tuned its voice 

To praise its Maker. For I die by choice. 

I go to meet the ghosts of my despairs. 

My murder'd hopes, my unregarded cares ! 

No man has wrought my death ! — no woman's guile 

Has sear'd my soul.'' 

Then, with a kind of smile, 
That twitch'd her mouth, and sadden'd all her face, 
She sang the song of Death's abiding-place, — 
A song of sorrow which, in days gone by, 
Her lute had thrill'd to, — sigh with cadence-sigh 
New knit in chorus. But to-day the sea, 
The wind-struck sea, made all its chords agree 
With that one rapture ; and the sounds thereof 
Were sad to hear as sighs that speak of love. 



Song. 



There is a land beyond the rising moon, 

A land of glory which the angels know ; — 
A floating wonder like a dream of June, 
The joys whereof will greet me in my swoon. 



11. 

A white sea-bird, a sea-gull overhead, 

May chirp at me to twit me with a doubt, 
But I shall smile upon my foamful bed, 
And all the waves will know that I am dead. 



136 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 



III. 

The sun, all day, will see me where I go, 

And, one by one, the stars will peep at me, 
And I shall soon be whitened like the snow, 
Though weird and wild with wandering to and fro. 

By this the water, bubbling to her knees, 
Broke into ripples, which the venturous breeze 
Edged as with lace — so dainty was the foam. 
A wintry wind had comb'd it like a comb ; 
But this light breeze, careering o'er the spray, 
Turn'd it to silver 'mid the crooning lay 
Of that lone creature on her foam-ward way. 



Song. 



Love, my Master, O my Chosen One, 

O thou to whom my thoughts, to-day, are turn'd ! 

1 stand out here with all my cravings done, 
And all my fevers quench'd beneath the sun. 

11. 

I am not mad ; nor am I — as I seem — 

The ghost of gladness, or the bane thereof. 
I hear the shouts of men, as in a dream, 
And, far away, the sea-bird's sudden scream. 



in. 



I am the wicked rose that lov'd the Dark, 

And lost its color, aye ! its blushing power, 
And therewithal its kinship to the lark ! 
I am the night- wind's, and I bear its mark. 



GLADYS THE SINGER. I37 

But now the water— clamoring to the ends 
Of her long hair — appear'd to make amends 
For its late calm ; and lashed her on the side. 
It was the buffet of the clamorous tide, 
The full tide, ebbing now, that sought the sea, 
As late the beach was sought — a moment's glee 
Whipp'd into foam ! But, unaffray'd at this, 
She smiled and said : — " It was an ocean-kiss ; 
This, and no more. " And, with an aching heart, 
She sang — with rapture that was once a part 
Of her stage life by men remembered well — 
The silvery cadence of her ocean-knell. 

Song. 

1. 

O sweet my Son ! my darling ! dead to me, 

But saved for him, as flowers are saved for God ; 
How like a fete-day will thy finding be 
When I'm at rest out yonder in the sea. 

11. 
Thou art the one sweet thing on all the earth, 

The pride of summer,and the winter's balm ; 
A glimpse of Heaven, a glory from thy birth, 
Without a peer in sadness or in mirth. 

in. 
Had I a thousand lives instead of one, 

A thousand deaths to die to cancel thine, 
I'd give them all, aye ! freely as a nun 
Gives all she hath for great Jehovah's Son. 

And, fever-fraught, with wildly streaming hair, 
She flung these notes ecstatic through the air. 



i38 gladys the singer. 

Song. 

1. 

This is the end of all my many fears. 

And this the charter of my right to die — 
To seek a solace, out beyond the spheres, 
And kill the scandals of my twenty years. . 

11. 

This is my penance, this ! and my delight, 

To sail the deep for searching of a tomb — 
And through the mirk, the madness of the night ! 



Up to the waist she stood in that expanse 
Of wan sea-water, piteous in her glance, 
And weary-limb'd, and shuddering to the soul. 
For, far away, she eyed the ocean-goal 
Whereto she thirsted with so wan a lip — 
The straight sea-line whereto a fleecy ship 
E'en now made way with homeward-sailing men ; 
And all the blood within her falter'd then. 
' ' Shall I go back, " she thought, ' ' and claim my boy, 
And dare the worst of all the world's annoy — ■ 
And front his father, and confide in him ? 
Shall I do this and turn me from the rim 
Of this dark wave now bearing full on me, 
And seek a dwelling far from any sea — 
Unknown to him ? " 

She stagger'd from the wave 
That reel'd about her like a rolling grave, 
And swerv'd aside to give it passage clear. 
" O God ! "she mused, half palsied in her fear, 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 39 

"I have o'erstepped mv doom; and now for this 

I shall be tumbled in the seething hiss 

Of tides tumultuous, and a Nothing be, 

A wide-eyed Nothing on the doubtful sea ! " 

Therewith she met the breakers' dark advance 
Which seem'd to tilt and turn to her, askance. 
And one of these assail'd her with the shocks 
Of foam-fed wrath, and hurl'd her at the rocks, 
And dragg'd her down, low-gurgling in the strain 
Of imminent death, and roar'd at her amain ; 
And made more havoc of her shining hair 
Than lovers' hands w r hich murder while they spare: 
Wild, wanton hands of wooers like the one 
For whom, to-day, she died beneath the sun, 
In fierce enthralment. But she rose anew 
Prone on her back, aghast, and pale of hue, 
And out to sea— a lifeless thing, and mild, 
With oozing lips, and eyes that ever smiled — 
She slowly drifted — soon to face the stars, 
And soon to front the moon athwart the bars 
Of feathery cloud and opal-tinted mist. 
But nevermore on earth should she be kiss'd, 
And never more be seen in any lands, 
And never more be touch'd by baby-hands ! 

Meantime the child, abandoned in the cave 
Lay lock'd in slumber, spared by wind and wave, 
And snugly-housed as eaglets in the bliss 
Of their nest-thrall, though near a precipice, 
Or rock-suspended in an Alpine wood. 
And lo ! at entrance of the cave there stood 
A silent man, with white and wistful face, 
Who seem'd to know the secrets of the place 
And all the hopes which lit it, lantern-wise. 

He paused an instant, and, with eager eyes, 
Peer'd in the grot, but saw no woman there, 



I4-0 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 



Only the child, which gave him stare for stare, 
And clench'd its fist, new-waken'd out of sleep ; 
And, as he enter'd, he was like to weep, 
With thoughts contentious. 

He undid the scroll, 
And read these words : " O Roland ! O my soul ! 
Lord of my life, my Liege, my King of Men ! 
If thou be he who met me in the glen, 
And not a dream, a phantom, or a fiend, 
Accept of me this boy that I have screen'd 
From birth till now, and take him to thyself, 
And love him as a Ghibelline, or Guelf, 
May love his heir. Our Saviour said, of old, 
' ' Forbid them not ! " and took into His fold 
All tender babes, and bless'd them with His steven, 
And call'd them God's elect, the lov'd of Heaven, 
Whom none on all the earth should drive away 
Prom His anointing, nightly or by day ! 
In life I err'd ; in death I make it clear 
How much I lov'd thee — more than honor dear, 
And more than wealth, which is the bane of youth, 
When, canker-like, it makes a lie a truth, 
And truth a lie, and hope a thing morose. 
I am not brave ; and yet, if one so close 
To Death's domain may dare to speak of Life, 
I know not fear. I am the Ocean's wife. 
I am the wife of every wanton wave 
That cares to touch me, though it may not save. 
Yet hear, oh, hear my plea ! My time will come. 
This babe of ours will speak when I am dumb, 
This baby-face will urge thee, with a smile, 
To think of me, and pray for me the while, 
As one enduring things that will endure. 
And, O my love ! of this, at least be sure : — 
I love thee still — for I will call thee mine 



GLADYS THE SINGER. 141 

One moment more ! The place beyond the brine, 
The place that I shall know when I am dead, 
Will not affright me when my breath is sped. 
And lo ! I ask thy pardon ere I die. 
Meekly I crave it. For I made reply 
In words unseemly ; and I pray thee now 
Forget, forgive ! All wrongs I disallow ; 
Yea, all my griefs, and all the blame thereof, 
And all the pangs that seem'd to wait on love. 
Oh, heed me, Roland ! Heed me, and, to-day 
Let me be glad, and cast my doubts away, 
As all unfit to share my dreams of thee. 
And do thou pause ere thou condemn in me 
The headlong fault which guides me, Is't a sin ? 
If so, God help me ! Is't a fury-din 
Of mere mad waves, and no assured repose 
Beyond all these ? I know not ; for the shows 
Of life and death and darkness touch me not, 
As they did touch me ere I trod the spot 
Of our first meeting. But I yearn at last 
To this one hope — new-looming from the past — 
That thou It remove all scandal from the boy, 
When — by my death — I rid thee of annoy 
Henceforth for ever ! He will win his peace 
And thou thy comfort ; and, till summers cease, 
And winters weary of their woful chase, 
.He will be thine. Oh ! when he grows apace 
Let him be shown the picture of my face — 
The face I wore when I was lov'd of thee — 
And say I died, unhurt, beside the sea, 
Not in the sea itself — 'twould injure him 
To know too much ! In cloisters cold and dim 
Let laggards frown, but let the wise be gay ! 
I want my boy to laugh from day to day, 
And smile at Fear, and torture not himself 



142 GLADYS THE SINGER. 

With baleful thoughts. And yet, to bring him pelf, 

I die unblest, unpray'd-for, in the flash 

Of one wild moment ! If the deed be rash, 

I do't in pity — not uncomforted ; 

For God, they say, protects when one is dead 

One's only child ! And thou ? Forgive me, Dear ! 

And love my boy — when I'm no longer here 

Aye, tell him, Roland ! tell him that I died 
A natural death, — and bless'd thee like a bride, 
And call'd on God to guard thee evermore ! " 
A shuddering sob convuls'd him to the core 
At these last words. " My wife ! my winsome wife ! 
Mine and not mine ! My wife ! " and then, at strife 
With his own grief, he fell before the child, 
And kissed and clasped him, and, in accents mild, 
Call'd him his angel, his predestined one, 
And bore him out triumphant to the sun, 
And stilled his cries by clamoring to the blast : — 
' ' Come back ! Come back ! and turn'd a face aghast 
To that old hag who croaked upon the sands. 

And what the sequel of the love-demands 
Of that lorn letter ? Day by day, for weeks, 
The wifeless man, with sad and sunken cheeks, 
Sail'd o'er the deep ; and sought, in silent bays, 
And lonely creeks, the wooed and wish'd for gaze 
Of stranded Gladys ; but he gain'd thereby 
Naught but remorse, and shame that cannot die — 
Shame and despair and blistering of the soul 
Burnt through by tears — as though some burning coal 
Had fallen therein ! He was the fool of time 
And — like a man for whom in every chime 
Outrings a knell — he quaff d the wine of hope 
And found it poison. All his thoughts did grope 
In undug graves ; and, earthward and by sea, 






GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 43 

No man was found on foot, or on his knee, 

At home — abroad — in sanctum or in pit 

Of lowliest labour, so untimely knit 

To thoughts of dole. And still the large-eyed corse 

Veer'd out to sea, as blind as his remorse — 

As deaf as danger, and as stiff and cold 

As lopp'd-off limbs of trees upon the mould. 

Yet she was hallow'd by the nights and days 

Of heavenward calm, and redden'd by the rays 

Of pitying suns, and look'd at, after dark, 

By Lady Dian in her crescent-bark. 

Aye ! she was cradled, for a week and more, 

On Ocean's breast, and then, amid the roar 

Of waves up-shuddering to the star-lit skies, 

Torn down in wrack, where Silence underlies 

All hopes and fears and frailties of the sod, 

This side the sanctum of the joys of God ! 



A CHORAL ODE 



TO 



LIBERTY. 



A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 



O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 

Mother and maid, immortal, man's Delight ! 
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame 

And none shall rob thee of thy vested right. 
Where is the man, though fifty times a king, 
Shall stay the tide, or countermand the spring ? 
And where is he, though fifty times a knave, 
Shall track thy steps to cast thee in a grave ? 



ii. 

Old as the sun art thou, and young as morn, 
And fresh as April when the breezes blow, 
And girt with glory like the growing corn, 

And undefiled like mountains made of snow. 
Oh, thou'rt the summer of the souls of men, 
And poor men's rights, approved by sword and pen, 
Are made self-certain as the day at noon, 
And fair to view as flowers that grow in June. 



in. 

Look, where erect and tall thy Symbol waits,* 
The gift of France to friends beyond the deep, 

*Bertoldi's Statue of Liberty in New York harbour. 



I48 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 

A lofty presence at the ocean-gates 

With lips of peace and eyes that cannot weep ; 
A new-born Tellus with uplifted arm 
To light the seas, and keep the land from harm — 
To light the coast at downfall of the day, 
And dower with dawn the darkening water-way. 



IV. 

O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 

Mother and maid, immortal, stern of vow! 

Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 

And thou shall wear the lightning on thy brow! 



v. 

Who dares condemn thee with the puny breath 
Of one poor life, O thou untouched of Fate ! 
Who seeks to lure thee to a felon's death, 

And thou so splendid and so love-elate ? 
Who dares do this and live ? Who dares assail 
Thy star-kissed forehead, pure and marble-pale 
And thou so self-possessed 'mid all the stir, 
And like to Pallas born of Mulciber ? 



VI. 

Oh, I've beheld the sun, at setting time, 

Peep o'er the hills as if to say good-bye ; 
And I have hailed it with the sudden rhyme 

Of some new thought, full-freighted with a sigh. 
And I have mused : — E'en thus may Freedom fall, 
And darkness shroud it like a winter pall, 
And night o'erwhelm it, and the shades thereof 
Engulf the glories born of perfect love. 



A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 1 49 



VII. 

But there's no fall for thee ; there is no tomb ; 

And none shall stab thee, none shall stay thy hand. 
Thy face is fair with love s eternal bloom 

And thou shalt have all things at thy command. 
A tomb for thee ? Aye, when the sun is slain 
And lamps and fires make daylight on the plain, 
Then may'st thou die, O Freedom ! and for thee 
A tomb be found where fears and dangers be. 



VIII. 

O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 

Mother and maid, immortal, keen of sight ! 

Fairest and first art thou in natne and fame, 
And thou shalt tread the tempest in the night / 



IX. 

There shall be feasting and a sound of song 

In thy great cities ; and a voice divine 
Shall tell of freedom all the winter long, 

And fill the air with rapture as with wine. 
The spring shall hear it, spring shall hear the sound, 
And summer waft it o'er the flowerful ground ; 
And autumn pale shall shake her withered leaves 
On festal morns and star-bespangled eves. 



x. 

For thou 'rt the smile of Heaven when earth is dim — ■ 
The face of God reflected in the sea — 

The land s acclaim uplifted by the hymn 
Of some glad lark triumphant on the lea. 



I50 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 



Thou art all this and more ! Thou art the goal 
Of earth's elected ones from pole to pole, 
The lute-string s voice, the world's primeval fire, 
And each man's hope, and every man's desire. 



XI. 

O proud and pure ! O gentle and sublime ! 

For thee and thine, O Freedom ! O my Joy ! 
For thee, Celestial ! on the shores of time 

A throne is built which no man shall destroy. 
Thou shalt be seen for miles and miles around 
And wield a sceptre, though of none be crowned. 
The waves shall know thee and the winds of Heaven 
Shall sing thee songs with mixed and mighty steven. 



XII. 

sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, ■ 
Mother and maid, immortal, unconfined I 

Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 

And thou shall speed more swiftly than the wind! 



XIII. 

Who loves thee not is traitor to himself, 
Traitor is he to God and to the grave, 
Poor as a miser with his load of pelf, 

And. more unstable than a lee-ward wave. 
Cursed is he for aye, and his shall be 
A name of shame from sea to furthest sea, 
A name of scorn to all men under sun 
Whose upright souls have learnt to loath this one. 



A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 151 



XIV. 



A thousand times, O Freedom ! have I turned 

To thy rapt face, and wished that, martyr- wise, 
I might achieve some glory, such as burned 

Within the depth of Gordon's azure eyes. 
Ah God ! how sweet it were to give thee life, 
To aid thy cause, self-sinking in the strife, 
Loving thee best, O Freedom ! and in tears 
Giving thee thanks for death-accepted years. 



xv. 

For thou art fearful, though so grand of soul, 
Fearful and fearless and the friend of men. 
The haughtiest kings shall bow to thy control, 

And rich and poor shall take thy guidance then, 
Who doubts the daylight when he sees afar 
The fading lamp of some night- weary star, 
Which, prophet-like, has heard amid the dark 
The first faint prelude of the nested lark ? 



XVI. 

O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 

Mother and maid, immortal, prompt of thought ! 
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 

And thou shall lash the storm till it be nought/ 



XVII. 

O thou desired of men ! O thou supreme 
And true-toned spirit whom the bards revere ! 

At times thou com'st in likeness of a dream 
To urge rebellion, with a face austere ; 



I52 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY, 



And by that power thou hast — e'en by that power 
Which is the outcome of thy sovereign-dower — 
Thou teachest slaves, down-trodden, how to stand 
Lords of themselves in each chivalrous Land. 



XVIII. 

The leagued fleets and armies of the law, 

Which once were synonyms of pride and hate, 

Shall serve, ere long, to keep thy name in awe, 
And then collapse, as old and out of date. 

Yea ! this shall be ; for God has willed it so. 

And none shall touch thy flag, to lay it low ; 

And none shall rend thy robe that is to thee 

As dawn to day, as sunlight to the sea. 

XIX. 

O Freedom ! O thou grand and gracious thing ! • 

For love of thee all seas, and every shore, 
And all domains whereof the minstrels sing, 

Are linked to Man's requirements evermore. 
And there shall be, full soon, from north to south, 
From east to west, by Wisdom's word of mouth, 
One code of laws that all shall understand, 
And all the world shall be one Fatherland ! 



xx. 

sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 

Mother and maid, immortal, sweet of breath 1 

Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 

And thou shall pluck Redemption out of Death > f 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ANTEROS. 



This is the feast-day of my soul and me, 
For I am half a god and half a man. 

These are the hours in which are heard by sea, 

By land and wave, and in the realms of space, 
The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span, 

^.nd give me power to sway the human race., 



ii. 

I am the king whom men call Lucifer, 
I am the genius of the nether spheres. 

Give me my Christian name, and I demur. 

Call me a Greek, and straightway I rejoice. 
Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears 

I salt the earth that gladdens at my voice. 



in. 

I am old Anteros ; a young, old god ; 

A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch. 
But I can turn my crutch into a rod, 
And change my rod into a crown of wood. 

Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch, 
And plays with poisons till he makes them good. 



i 5 6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IV. 



The sun, uprising with his golden hair, 
Is mine apostle ; and he serves me well. 

Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare, 

Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought, 
Has pined for love ; and wanderers out of hell, 

And saints from heaven, have known what I have 
taught. 



v. 

Great are my griefs ; my joys are multiplex ; 

And beasts and birds and men my subjects are; 
Yea, all created things that have a sex, 
And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere ; 
All these, and more, proclaim me from afar, 
And sing my marriage songs from year to year. 






VI. 

There are no bridals but the ones I make ; 

For men are quicken'd when they turn to me. 
The soul obeys me for its body's sake, 
And each is form'd for each, as day for night. 

'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee 
To win the wisdom of a fool's delight. 



VII. 

Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it down, 

And birds have babbled it to the winds of heaven. 

The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town, 

Lovers have sung the songs that I have made. 
Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven, 

Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 57 



VIII. 



O men ! O maidens ! O ye listless ones ! 

Ye who desert my temples m the East, 
Ye who reject the rays of summer suns, 
And cling to shadows in the wilderness ; 

Why are ye sad ? Why frown ye at the feast, 
Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press ? 



IX. 

Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove, 
A joy that crushes and a love that stings, 

A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove, 

A thing of nothing, born of less than naught — 
Why in your hearts do ye desire these things, 

Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought ? 



See, see ! I weep, but I can jest at times ; 

Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away. 
The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes 
Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown. 

I am the god for whom all maidens pray, 
But none shall have me for herself alone. 



XI. 

No ; 1 have love enough, here where I stand, 
To marry fifty maids in their degree ; 

Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band, 

And every bride the proxy of a score. 
Want ye a mate for millions ? I am he. 

Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore. 



I58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



XII. 



O men ! O masters ! O ye kings of grief ! 

Ye who control the world but not the grave, 
What have ye done to make delight so brief, 
Ye who have spurn' d the minstrel and the lyre? 

I will not say : "Be patient. " Ye are brave ; 
And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire. 



XIII. 

There shall be traitors in the court of love, 
And tears and tortures and the bliss of pain. 

The maids of men shall seek the gods above, 

And drink the nectar of the golden lake. 

Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain 

They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake. 



XIV. 

They shall be taught the songs the syrens know, 
The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry, 

The secrets of the south and of the snow, 

The wherewithal of day, and death, and night. 
O men ! O maidens ! pray no prayer for me, 

But sing to me the songs of my delight. 



xv. 

Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear, 
And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven. 

And let the singers, with a voice of cheer, 

Announce my name to all the ends of earth ; 
And let my servants, seventy times and seven, 

Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 59 



XVI. 

Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame, 
Seize all the souls of men for sake of me. 

For I will have Contention put to shame, 

And all the hearts of all things comforted. 

There are no laws but mine on land and sea, 

And men shall crown me when their kings are dead. 



l6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MY LADY IN WRATH. 



i. 

O fairest and fondest of nymphs, whom the birds and 
the breezes adore, 

Be patient with me for a space, ah ! be loving and true 
as of yore ; 

For if thou art slow to forgive and quick to recall an 
offence, 

Remember at least I am thine to the uttermost throb- 
bing of sense ! 



ii. 

I am thine in the light of the past, in the light of the 
future I'm thine ; 

And I kneel to thine image to-day, as a hermit may 
kneel at a shrine. 

And I know there is safety therein for a man who is 
stricken of Fate, 

And a comfort for one of us twain in the timely sup- 
pression of hate. 



in. 

Thou didst call me thy singer of old, and, indeed, I 

was proud of the name, 
But to-day I have fashioned a song as a victor may 

fashion a fame. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6l 

And behold ! it is marred in its flight as a bird that has 

broken its wings, 
And the chords of the lute are entranced with the 

weight of the wonder of things. 



IV. 

And yet it is true, as 1 live ! I was chosen by thee 

and ordained ; 
I was girt by the gleam of thy hair ; in the meshes 

thereof I was chained. 
At the sound of thy voice I was thrilled, and the 

thrilling thereof was astir 
With the meanings of many delights that the summer 

was soon to confer. 



Love ! by the token of tears and the touch of a 

vanished content, 
By the arrow that flies to the mark when the bow of 

the spoiler is bent ; 
By the dreams I am loth to discard, by the woes I 

am fain to rehearse, 

1 implore thee, be gentle in time, that my life may be 

freed of thy curse ! 



VI. 

I remember how cold it became when I saw thee in 

silence depart ; 
And I felt as I bade thee adieu that the linnet was 

breaking my heart. 
1 1 



I 62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

For the song that it sang- was a dirge, though it 

seemed to be singing of June, 
And the breezes had caught the despair that was hid 

in the depths of the tune. 



VII. 

I was moved ; I was like to go mad ! I was learning 

my lesson by rote ; 
And I wondered how soon I should die, as I stifled 

the sob in my throat. 
For a dove may be angered — I learned — and a saint 

may forget to be kind, 
And a lily may dream of the snow while the summer's 

afloat on the wind ! 



VIII. 

It was shown in the days that are gone, it was known 

in the nights that are passed, 
It was proved in the pomp of the sun and the 

mystical moan of the blast ; 
But now it is also revealed that a rose may remember 

its thorn — 
And I weep when I think of it all in the hush of the 

coming of morn. 



IX. 

I will turn to the truths that endure, for the sake of 

thy love I will turn, 
To the sweetness and comfort of tears, — and the 

teachings thereof I will learn. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 63 

For a man must be hard as a rock and callous as one 

who is dead 
If he cannot be thankful at last for the tears he is 

prompted to shed. 



x. 

Aye, lady! believe it of me : I would rather be slain 
in the night, 

I would rather be thrown in the sea when the hurri- 
cane's ready to smite, 

I would rather be hunted of wolves, in a winter of 
havoc and dearth. 

Than endure the disdain of an hour from the sweetest 
of women on earth ! 



XI. 

So come to me, come, O my Joy ! in the morrow 
that waits for us both, 

And the Future will pardon the Past for the seeming 
collapse of an oath ; 

And the hope that is centred in thee, when the right 
to invest it is won, 

Will illumine and gladden the world with a glory sur- 
passing the sun ! 



164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE WAKING OF THE LARK. 



O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, does pre- 
pare thee — 
As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that 
will upbear thee — 

Oh ! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird, 
Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred ? 
Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the 
golden meadows ? 

11. 

Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his 

song to sorrow, 
And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the 
morrow ; 

But thou art not a prophet, thou, 
If naught but joy can touch thee now ; 
If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of 
Nature's anguish. 

in. 

Oh ! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor 

and slighted, 
The songs we love are those we hear when love is 

unrequited. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6z 



But thou art still the slave of dawn, 
And canst not sing till night be gone. 
Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine 
and quiver. 

IV. 

Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splen- 
dour, 
And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that 
should attend her. 

The moon, so sad and silver-pale, 
Is mistress of the nightingale ; 
And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the 
darkness. 

v. 

For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of 

thine outpouring ; 
And thou'rt as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet 
flooring. 

The daisy, with its hood undone, 
The grass, the sunlight, and the sun — 
These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for 
thy singing. 

VI. 

Oh, hush ! Oh, hush ! how wild a gush of rapture in 

the distance — 
A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's 
assistance ; 

A sound that wells from happy throats, 
A flood of song where beauty floats, 
And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem 
to cross a river. 



1 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VII. 

This is the advent of the lark — the priest in grey 

apparel — 
Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer 
carol ; 

This is the prelude to the lay 
The birds did sing in Caesar's day, 
And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's 
creation. 

VIII. 

O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love 

elated, 
Oh ! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be con- 
secrated ; 

Till from the gateways of the morn, 
The sun, with all his light unshorn, 
His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the 
lofty heavens ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6j 



A BALLAD OF KISSES. 



There are three kisses that I call to mind, 
And I will sing - their secrets as I go. 

The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind, 
Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know 
As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow. 

ii. 

The second kiss, ah God ! I feel it yet, 

And evermore my soul will loathe the same. 

The toys and joys of fate I may forget, 
But not the touch of that divided shame : 
It clove my lips ; it burnt me like a flame. 

in. 

The third, the final kiss, is one I use 

Morning and noon and night ; and not amiss. 

Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse ! 

And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss, 
Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss. 



1 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MARY ARDEN. 



O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days 
And parted nights, long - sped, we lift our gaze, 
Behold ! I greet thee with a modern rhyme. 
Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, 
To solemnize the feast-day of thy son. 



ii. 

And who was he who flourish'd in the smiles 
Of thy fair face ? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles, 
Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known 
As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone 
Of all the seas and all the lands of earth. 



in. 

He was unfamous when he came to thee, 
But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see, 
And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day, 
A week before the wondrous month of May ; 
And God therein was gracious to us all. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 69 



IV. 



fie lov'd thee, Lady ! and he lov'd the world ; 
And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd ; 
And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born 
Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn, 
In all the far-off cycles yet to come. 



v. 



He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, 
A hundred mottoes from immortal lips ; 
And, year by year, we smile to keep away 
The generous tears that mind us of the sway 
Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof. 



VI. 



His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, 
The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece 
Of grand endeavour ; and the thunder-roll 
Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole, 
Have borne the tidings of our English tongue. 



VII. 

He gave us Hamlet ; and he taught us more 
Than schools have taught us ; and his fairy-lore 
Was fraught with science ; and he called from death 
Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath 

Of their great passion that has rilled the spheres. 



JO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VIII. 

He made us know Cordelia, and the man 
Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban • 
And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd 
Maidens and men and myths who were revered 
In olden days, before the earth was sad. 



IX. 

Aye ! this is true. It was ordained so ; 
He was thine own, three hundred years ago ; 
But ours to-day ; and ours till earth be red 
With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead, 
And days and nights be scattered like the leaves. 



x. 

It was for this he lived, for this he died : 
To raise to Heaven the face that never lied, 
To lean to earth the lips that should become 
Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb, 
And all the firm, fine body turn'd to clay. 



XI. 

He lived to seal, and sanctify, the lives 
Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives, 
And gave them each a space wherein to dwell 
And for his mother's sake he loved them well 
And made them types undying of all truth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 



XII. 



O fair and fond young mother of the boy 
Who wrought all this — O Mary ! — in thy joy 
Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest, 
He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best 
Of all men's chanting since the world began ? 



XIII. 



Did'st thou, O Mary ! with the eye of trust 
Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust 
Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, 
And all the pride therein that should be won 
By toilsome men, content to be his slaves ? 



XIV. 



Did'st thou, good mother ! in the tender ways 
That women find to fill the fleeting days, 
Behold afar the Giant who should rise 
With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies, 
To write his name, and thine, among the stars ? 



xv. 



I love to think it ; and, in dreams at night 
I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, 
With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, 
As if to draw him back from out the storm — 
A child again, and thine to nurse withal. 



172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



XVI. 

I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, 
And big, bright eyes — far-searching in the air 
For thy sweet babe — and, in a trice of time, 
I see the boy advance to thee, and climb, 
And call thee " Mother ! " in ecstatic tones. 



XVII. 

Yet, if my thought be vain — if, by a touch 
Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch — 
Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit ! and endow 
My heart with fervour while to thee I bow 
Athwart the threshold of my fading dream. 



XVIII. 

For — though so seeming-bold in this my song — 
I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng 
Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar, 
The famed effulgence of that eastern star 

Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens. 



XIX. 

In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass 
Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, 
As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son 
Endowed with life, but with the look of one 

Who knows the nearest way to some new grave. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 73 



XX. 



And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush 
Of thy full beauty, while the mother's " Hush ! 
Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair 
Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare 
Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith ! 



XXI 



Oh ! by the June-tide splendour of thy face 
When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace 
Did leap and laugh — O Mary ! by the same, 
I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, 

And call thee England's Pride for evermore ! 



174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SACHAL. 



A WAIF OF BATTLE. 



Lo ! at my feet, 
A something pale of hue ; 
A something sad to view ; 
Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet. 



ii. 



Not white as snow ; 
Not transient as a tear ! 
A warrior left it here. 
It was his passport ere he met the foe. 



in. 



Here is a name, 
A word upon the book ; 
If ye but kneel to look, 
Ye '11 find the letters " Sachal " on the same. 



IV. 



His Land to cherish, 
He died at twenty-seven. 
There are no wars in Heaven, 
But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish. 






• MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 75 

V. 

Where was he born ? 
In France, at Puy le Dome, 
A wanderer from his home, 
He found a Fatherland beyond the morn. 

VI. 

'Twas France's plan ; 
The cause he did not ask. 
His life was but a mask, 
And he upraised it, martyr d at Sedan ; 

VII. 

And prone in death, 
Beyond the name of France, 
Beyond his hero glance — 
He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath. 

VIII. 

O thou dead son ! 
O Sachal ! far away, 
But not forgot to-day, 
I had a mother too, but now have none. 



IX. 

Our hopes are brave. 
Our faiths are braver still. 
The soul shall no man kill ; 
For God will find us, each one in his grave. 



I76 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A land more vast 
Than Europe's kingdoms are — 
A brighter, nobler star 
Than victory's fearful light — is thine at last. 

XL 

And should'st thou meet 
Yon Germans up on high — 
Thy foes when death was nigh — 
Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat. 



XII. 

For all are just, 
Yea, all are patriots there, 
And thou, O Fils de Pierre ! 
Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust. 

XIII. 

Oh, farewell, friend ; 
My friend, albeit unknown, 
Save in thy death alone, 
Oh, fare thee well till sin and sorrow end. 



XIV. 

In realms of joy 
We'll meet ; aye, every one : 
Mother and sire and son, — 
And my poor mother, too, will claim her boy. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 77 



XV. 

Death leads to God. 
Death is the Sword of Fate. 
Death is the Golden Gate 
That opens up to glory, through the sod. 

XVI. 

And thou that road, 
O Sachal ! thou hast found ; 
A king is not so crown'd 
As thou art, soldier ! in thy blest abode. 

XVII. 

Deathless in death, 
Exalted, not destroyed, 
Thou art in Heaven employed, 
To swell the songs of angels with thy breath! 

12 



178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE LADY OF THE MAY. 



O stars that fade in amber skies 
Because ye dread the light of day, 

O moon so lonely and so wise, 

Look down, and love my Love alway ; 
Salute the Lady of the May. 



11. 

O lark that soarest in the light 
To hail thy lord in his array, 

Look down ; be just ; and sing aright 
A lover claims thy song to-day 
To greet his Lady of the May. 



in. 

" O lady ! lady ! " sings the lark, 
" Thy lover's hest I do obey ; 

For thou art splendid after dark, 

And where thou smilest, there is day ; 
And thou 'rt the Lady of the May. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IV 



" The nightingale's a friend of mine, 
And yesternight she flew my way. 

'Awake,' she cried, ' at morning shine, 
And sing for me thy blythest lay 
To greet the Lady of the May. ' 



v. 



" 'And tell her, tell her, gentle one, 
While thou attun'st thy morning lay, 

That I will sing at set of sun 
Another song for thy sweet fay, 
Because she's Lady of the May.' 



VI. 



"And, lo! I come," the lark in air, 
Self-pois'd and free, did seem to say, 

" I come to greet thy lady's hair 
And call its beams the light of day 
Which decks thy Lady of the May. " 



VII. 



179 



Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well ! 
For all thou say'st and still would'st say 

And for the thoughts which Philomel 
Intends to trill, in roundelay, 
To greet my Lady of the May. 



l8o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VIII. 



We two (my Love and I) are one, 
And so shall be, for aye and aye. 

Go, take my homage to the sun, 
And bid him shine his best to-day, 
To crown my Lady of the May ! 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l8l 



AN ODE TO ENGLISHMEN. 



I who have sung of love and lady bright, 
And mirth and music and the world's delight, 

Behold ! to-day, I sound a sterner note 
To move the minds of foemen when they fight. 



n. 

Have I not said : There is no sweeter thing, 
And none diviner than the wedding-ring ? 

And, all intent to make my meaning plain, 
Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King ? 



in. 

Yea, tjiis is so. But lo ! to-day there comes 
The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums ; 

And I must parley with the men of toil 
Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums. 



IV. 

I must arraign each man ; yea, all the host ; 
And each true soul shall learn the least and most 

Of all his wrongs — if wrongs indeed they be ; 
And he shall face, the flag that guards the coast. 



I 82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



V. 



He shall salute it ! He shall find therein 
Salve for his wounds and solace for his sin. 

Brother and guide is he who loves his Land ; 
But he is kinless who denies his kin. 



VI. 



Has he a heart to feel, a knee to bend, 
And will not trust his country to the end ? 

If this be so, God help him to a tear ! 
He shall be foiled, as foeman and as friend. 



VII. 

Bears he a sword ? I care not. He is base ; 
Unfit to wield it, and of meaner place 

Than tongue may tell of, in the Senate House 
And he shall find no balm for his disgrace. 



VIII. 

O men ! I charge ye, in the name of Him % 
Who rules the world, and guards the cherubim, 
I charge ye, pause, ere from the lighted track 
Ye turn, distraught, to pathways that are dim. 



IX. 

Who gave your fathers, and your fathers' sons, 
The rights ye claim, amid the roar of guns, 

And 'mid the flash thereof from sea to sea ? 
Your country ! through her lov'd, her chosen ones. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 83 



Oh, ye are dastards if ye lift a hand, 
Dastards and fools, if, loveless in a band, 

Ye touch in wrath the bulwark of the realm. 
Ye shall be baulk'd, and Chivalry shall stand. 

XL 

I have a sword, I also, and I swear 

By my heart's faith, and by my Lady's hair, 

That I will strike the first of ye that moves, 
If by a sign ye wrong the flag ye bear. 

XII. 

In Freedom's name, in hers to whom we bow, 
In her great name, I charge ye, palter now 
With no traducer of your country's cause. 
Accurst of God is he who breaks his vow i 



184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



ZULALIE. 



1. 



I am the sprite 
That reigns at night, 

My body is fair for man's delight. 
I leap and laugh 
As the wine I quaff, 

And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 



11. 

I curse and swear 

In my demon-lair ; 
I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair. 

I madden the old, 

I gladden the bold, 
And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 



in. 

Of churchyard stone 

I have made my throne ; 
My locks are looped with a dead man's bone. 

Mine eyes are red 

With the tears I shed, 
And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 












MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 85 



IV. 

In cities and camps 

I have lighted my lamps, 
My kisses are caught by kings and tramps. 

With rant and revel 

My hair I dishevel, 
And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 



My kisses are stains, 
Mine arms are chains, 

My forehead is fair and false like Cain's. 
My gain is loss, 
Mine honour is dross — 

And I am the queen of Astrofelle ! 



1 86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO. 



See where Beethoven sits alone — a dream of days 
elysian, 

A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision — 

The man who strikes the potent chords which make 
the world, in wonder, 

Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouth- 
piece of the thunder. 

ii. 

He feels the music of the skies the while his heart is 

breaking ; 
He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no 

forsaking ; 
And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a 

token, 
He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever 

spoken. 

in. 

He doth not hear the whispered word of love in his 

seclusion, 
Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad 

confusion ; 
But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a 

declamation 
That all true lovers of the earth have claim'd him of 

their nation. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 87 



IV. 

He had a Juliet in his youth, as Romeo had before him, 
And, Romeo-like, he sought to die that she might then 

adore him ; 
But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not 

been proven, 
And would not change her name for his — Guiciardi for 

Beethoven. 

v. 

O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a 

world has treasured ! 
O sovereign of a grander realm than man has ever 

measured ! 
Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast gain'd 

in glory, 
The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal 

story. 

VI. 

Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all 

men discover 
To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover ; 
A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring 

ocean, 
And bid the stars discourse to tree's in words of man's 

emotion. 

VII. 

A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the 
seasons, 

Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's im- 
mortal reasons ; 



I 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A bard who knows no life but this : to love and be 

rejected, 
And reproduce in earthly strains the prayers of the 

elected. 

VIII. 

O poet heart ! O seraph soul ! by men and maids 

adored ! 
O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid 

forehead ! 
We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our 

gladness, 
To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown 

thee in thy sadness. 



IX. 

An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance, 
Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made 

Despair a science. 
Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, in its large 

vibration, 
It seemed the roaring of the sea in nature's jubilation. 



x. 

O Sire of Song ! Sonata-King ! Sublime and loving 
master; 

The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in dis- 
aster ; 

In thee were found the fires of thought — the splen- 
dours of endeavour — 

And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and 
for ever ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 89 









A RHAPSODY OF DEATH. 



That phantoms fair, with radiant hair, 

May seek at midnight hour 
The sons of men, belov'd again, 
And give them holy power ; 
That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come 

and go, 
Is true as death, the prophet saith ; and God will have 
it so. 

11. I 

For who be ye who doubt and prate ? 

O sages ! make it clear 
If ye be more than men of fate, 
Or less than men of cheer ; 
If ye be less than bird or beast ? O brothers ! make it 

plain 
If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain. 



in. 

You say there is no future state ; 

The clue ye fail to find. 
The flesh is here, and bones appear 
When graves are undermined. 
But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye 

frame — 
Ye who have heard no spirit-word to guide ye to the 
same ? 



I9O MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IV. 



Ah ! facts are good, and reason's good, 

But fancy's stronger far j 
In weal or woe we only know 
We know not what we are. 
The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, 

afraid ; 
The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm 
has play'd. 

v. 

But these, ye urge, are outward signs. 

Such signs are not for you. 
The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd 
By diamonds of the dew. 
The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more 

complete ; 
He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his 
feet ! 

VI. 

The sage can kill a thousand things, 

And tell the names of all ; 
And wrench away the wearied wings 
Of eagles when they fall ; 
And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest 

tree, 
And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea. 

VII. 

But can he set, by day or night, 

The clock-work of the skies ? 
Or bring the dead man back to sight 

With soul-invested eyes ? 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 191 

Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways 

of death, 
And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds 

the vital breath ? 



VIII. 

If he could do such deeds as these, 
He might, though poor and low, 
Explain the cause of Nature's laws, 
Which none shall ever know ; 
He might recall the vanish' d years by lifting of his 

hand, 
And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he 
has plann'd. 

IX. 

But God is just. He burdens not 

The shoulders of the sage ; 
He pities him whose sight is dim ; 
He turns no second page. 
There are two pages to the book. We men have read 

the one ; 
The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun. 



x. 

The other needs a poet's eye, 

Like that of Milton blind ; 
The lieht of Faith which cannot die, 
Though doubts perplex the mind ; 
The eyesight of a little child ; a martyr's eye in dole, 
Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the 
soul ! 



192 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A PRAYER FOR LIGHT. 



Oh, give me light, to-day. or let me die — 
The light of love, the love-light of the sky — 
That I, at length, may see my darling's face 

One minute's space. 

11. 

Have I not wept to know myself so weak 
That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek, 
The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold 

Her locks of gold ? 

in. 

Have I not sworn that I will not be wed, 

But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed ? 

The soul can see — for souls are seraphim — 

When eyes are dim. 



IV. 



Oh, hush ! she comes. I know her. She is nigh. 
She brings me death, true heart, and I will die. 
She brings me love, for love and life are one 

Beyond the sun. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 93 



This is the measure, this, of all my joys : 
Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise. 
Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know 

Which path I go. 



VI. 






I cannot die if thou be not a-near, 

To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere. 

O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath 

Kiss me to death ! 



194 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MIRAGE. 



'Tis a legend of a lover, 

Tis a ballad to be sung, 
In the gloaming- — under cover — 
By a minstrel who is young ; 
By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with 
his tongue. 



n. 

I, who know it, think upon it, 
Not unhappy, tho' in tears, 
And I gather in a sonnet 
All the glory of the years ; 
And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance 
disappears. 



in. 

Ah ! I see her as she faced me, 

In the sinless summer days, 
When her little hands embraced me, 
And I saddened at her gaze, 
Thinking, Sweet One ! will she love me when we walk 
in other ways ? 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 95 



IV. 

Will she cling to me as kindly 

When the childish faith is lost ? 
Will she pray for me as blindly, 
Or but weigh the wish and cost, 
Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she 
has cross'd ? 



Oh ! I swear by all I honour, 
By the graves that I endow, 
By the grace I set upon her, 
That I meant the early vow — 
Meant it much as men and women mean the same 
thing spoken now. 



VI. 

But her maiden troth is broken, 

And her mind is ill at ease, 
And she sends me back no token 
From her home beyond the seas ; 
And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks 
me on her knees. 



VII. 

Yes, for pardon freely granted ; 

For she wrong'd me, understand. 
And my life is disenchanted, 
As I wander through the land 
With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a 
band. 



I96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VIII. 

Hers was sweetest of sweet faces, 

Hers the tenderest eyes of all ! 
In her hair she had the traces 
Of a heavenly coronal, 
Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight 
could not fall. 



IX. 

She was fairer than a vision ; 

Like a vision, too, has flown. 
I, who flushed at her decision, 

Lo ! I languish here alone ; 
And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was 



mine own. 



x. 

Not for her. sweet sainted creature ! 

Could I curse her to her face ? 
Could I look on form and feature, 

And deny the inner grace ? 
Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place. 



XI. 

And I told her, in mad fashion, 

That I loved her — would incline 
All my life to this one passion, 
And would kneel as at a shrine ; 
And would love her late and early, and would teach 
her to be mine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I97 



XII. 

Now in dreams alone I meet her 
With my lowly human praise : 
She is sweeter and completer, 
And she smiles on me always ; 
But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early 
days. 



198 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



A MOTHER'S NAME. 



I love the sound ! The sweetest under Heaven, 
That name of mother — and the proudest, too. 

As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven 
Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue, 

We still repeat the word, with tender steven. 
Dearest of friends ! dear mother ! what we do 

This side the grave, in purity of aim, 

Is glorified at last by thy good name. 



11. 

But how forlorn the word, how full of woe, 
When she who bears it lies beneath the clod ! 

In vain the orphan child would call her so — 
She comes not back : her place is up with God. 

The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow ; 

The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod. 

Ah, lose not heart ! Some flowers may fade in gloom, 

But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb ! 









MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 99 



A SONG OF SERVITUDE. 



This is a song of serfs that I have made, 

A song of sympathy for grief and joy : — 
The old, the young, the lov'd and the betrayed, 
All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed. 



11. 

There are no tyrants but the serving ones, 

There are no servants but the men who rule. 
The Captain conquers with his army's guns, 
But he himself is conquered by his sons. 



in. 

What is a parent but a daughter's slave, 

A son's retainer when the lad is ill ? 
The great Creator loves the good and brave, 
And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave. 



IV. 

The son is servant in his father's halls, 

The daughter is her mother's maid-of-work. 
The welkin wonders when the ocean calls, 
And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls. 



2CO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



There are no " ups " in life, there are no "downs," 
For "high and " low " are words of like degree ; 
He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns, 
He is a king though nameless in the towns. 



VI. 

None is so lofty as the sage who prays, 

None so unhigh as he who will not kneel. 
The breeze is servant to the summer days, 
And he is bowed-to most who most obeys. 



VII. 

These are the maxims that I take to heart, 

Do thou accept them, reader, for thine own ; 
Love well thy work ; be truthful in the mart, 
And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart. 



VIII. 

None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate, 
Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth. 
Make friends with death ; and God, who is so great, 
He will assist thee to a nobler fate. 



IX. 

None are unfit to serve upon their knees 

The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear. 
The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees, 
And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201 



X. 



All things are good ; all things incur a debt, 

And all must pay the same, or soon or late 
The sun will rise betimes, but he must set ; 
And man must seek the laws he would forget. 



XI. 



There are no mockeries in the universe, 

No false accounts, no errors that will thrive. 
The work we do, the good things we rehearse, 
Are boons of Nature basely named a curse. 



XII. 



"Give us our daily bread ! " the children pray, 

And mothers plead for them while thus they speak. 
But ' ' Give us work, O God ! " we men should say, 
That we may gain our bread from day to day. 



XIII. 



'Tis not alone the crown that makes the kine; 

Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind. 
The lark who soars so high is quick to sing, 
And proud to yield allegiance to the spring. 



XIV. 



And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall, 

Athwart the dangers of the day's behests, 
Oh, let's not shirk, at joy's, or sorrow's, call, 
The service due to God who serves us all ! 



202 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SYLVIA IN THE WEST. 



What shall be done ? I dare not pray ; 

Nor shall I stint the pangs I feel. 
If prayers could alter night to day — 
Or black to white — I might appeal ; 
I might attempt to sway thy heart, 
And prove it mine, or claim a part. 



ii. 

I might attempt to urge on thee 
At least the chance of some redress 

An hour's revoke — a moment's plea — 
A smile to make my sorrows less. 

I might indeed be taught in time 

To blush for hope, as for a crime ! 



m. 

But thou art stone, though soft and fleet- 
A statue, not a maiden, thou ! 

A man may hear thy bosom beat 

When thou hast sworn some idle vow. 

But not for love, no ! not for this; 

For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 



IV. 



I mean, thy friends will sell thy love, 
As loves are sold in England, here. 

A man will buy my golden dove — 
I doubt he'll find his bargain dear ! 

He'll lose the wine ; he'll buy the bowl, 

The life, the limbs, — but not the soul. 



So, take thy mate and all his wealth, 
And all the joys that wait on fame. 

Thou'lt weep — poor martyr d one ! — by stealth, 
And think of me, and shriek my name ; 

Yes, in his arms ! And wake, too late, 

To coax and kiss the man you hate. 



VI. 

By slow degrees, from year to year, 

From week to week, from night to night, 

He will be taught how dark and drear 
Is barter' d love — how sad to sight 

A perjured face ! He will be driven 

To compass Hell — and dream of Heaven. 



VII. 

But stand at God's high altar there, 

With saints around thee tall and sweet, 

I'll match thy pride with my despair, 
And drag thee down from glory's seat. 

Yea, thou shalt kneel ! Thy head shall bow 

As mine is bent in anguish now. 



204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VIII. 

What ! for thy sake have I forsworn 
My just ambition — all my joy, 

And all my hope from morn to morn, 
That seem'd a prize without alloy ? 

Have I done this ? I have ; and see ! 

I weep wild tears for thine and thee. 



IX. 

But I can school my soul to strength, 
And weep and wail as children do ; 

Be hard as stone, yet melt at length, 
And curb my pride as thou canst, too 

But I have faith, and thou hast none ; 

And I have joy, but thine is done. 



x. 

No marriage-bells ? No songs, you say ? 

No flowers to grace our bridal morn ? 
No wine ? No kiss? No wedding-day ? 

I care not ! Oaths are all forsworn ; 
And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white, 
I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night. 



XL 

And so I shall — Oh ! doubt not that. 

At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice. 
When screams the owl, when swoops the bat, 

When ghosts are out, Til curse thee thrice. 
And thou shalt hear ! — Aye, by my troth, 
One song will suit the 'souls of both. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 205 



XII. 

I curse thy face ; I curse thy hair ; 

I curse thy lips that smile so well, 
Thy life, thy love and my despair, 

My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell ; 
My soul and thine ! — Ah, see ! though black, 
I take one half my curses back. 

XIII. 

For thou and I were form'd for hate, 
For love, for scorn ; no matter what. 

I am thy Fere and thou my Fate, 
And fire and flood shall harm us not. 

Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken, 

And fiends will sing thy requiem then. 

XIV. 

Yet think not Death will serve thy stead ; 

IT1 find thy grave, though wall'd in stone. 
I'll move thy mould to make my bed, 

And lie with thee long hours alone : — 
Long, lifeless hours ! Ah God, how free, 
How pale, how cold, thy lips will be ? 

xv. 

But graves are cells of truth and love, 
And men may talk no treason there. 

A corpse will wear no wedding-glove, 
A ghost will make no sign in air. 

But ghosts can pray ? Well, let them kneel ; 

They, too, must loathe the love they feel. 



206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



XVI. 

Ah me ! to sleep and yet to wake, 
To live so long, and yet to die ; 

To sing- sad songs for Sylvia's sake, 
And yet no peace to gain thereby ! 

What have I done ? What left unsaid ? 

Nay, I will count my tears instead. 

XVII. 

Here is a word of wild design. 

Here is a threat ; 'twas meant to warn. 
Here is a fierce and freezing line, 

As hot as hate, as cold as scorn. 
Ah, friend ! forgive ; forbear my rhymes, 
But pray for me, sweet soul ! sometimes. 

XVIII. 

Had I a curse to spare to-day, 

(Which I have not) I'd use it now. 

I'd curse my hair, to turn it gray, 

I'd teach my back to bend and bow ; 

I'd make myself so old and thin 

That I should seem too sad to sin. 



XIX. 

And then we'd meet, we two, at night ; 

And I should know what saints have known. 
Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright, 

Or shriek to meet me there alone. 
I should not then be spurned for this 
Or want a smile, or need a kiss. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207 



XX. 

I should not then be fierce as fire, 
Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife ; 

My heart would throb with no desire, 
For care would cool the flush of life ; 

And I should love thee, spotless one, 

As pilgrims love some holy nun. 

XXI. 

Ah queen-like creature ! smile on me ; 

Be kind, be good ; I lov'd thee much. 
I thank thee, see ! on bended knee. 

I seek salvation in thy touch. 
And when I sleep, I watch thee come, 
And both are wild, and one is dumb. 



XXII. 

I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart ; 

I kiss thy lips and call thee mine. 
Of thy sweet soul I form a part, 

And my poor soul is part of thine. 
Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou ! 
But let me be thy servant now. 

XXIII. 

What ! did I curse thy golden hair ? 

Well, then, the sun will set at noon ; 
The face that keeps the world so fair 

Is thine, not his ! he darkens soon. 
Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn, 
And day departs when thou art gone. 



208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 









XXIV. 



Oh ! had I groves in some sweet star 

That shines in Heaven the whole night through — 
A steed with wings — a golden car — 

A something wild and strange and true : — 
A fairy's wand — an angel's crown — 
I'd merge them all in thy renown. 



xxv. 

I'd give thee queens to wait on thee, 
And kings to kneel to thee in prayer, 

And seraph-boys by land and sea 
To do thy bidding — earth and air 

To pay thee homage — all the flowers — 

And all the nymphs in all the bowers. 

XXVI. 

And this our love should last for aye, 

And we should live these thousand years. 

We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day, 
And make the tour of all the spheres. 

We'd do strange things ! Sweet stars would shine, 

And Death would spare my love and thine. 

XXVII. 

But these are dreams ; and dreams are vain ; 

Mine most of all — so heed them not. 
Brave thoughts will die, though men complain, 

And mine was bold ! 'Tis now forgot. 
Well ; let me bless thee, ere I sleep, 
And give thee all my joys to keep. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 20Q 



XXVIII. 

I bless the house where thou wast born, 

I bless the hours of every night, 
And every hour from flush of morn 

Till death of day, for thy delight ; 
I bless the sunbeams as they shine, — 
So like those golden locks of thine ! 

XXIX. 

I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes, 
Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair, 

The light that shines in summer skies — 
In garden walks when thou art there— 

And all the grass beneath thy feet, 

And all the songs thou singes i, Sweet ! 

XXX. 

But blessing thus — ah, woe's the day ! — 
I know what tears I shall not shed, 

What flowers will bloom, and, — bright as they,- 
What bells will ring when I am dead. 

Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou ! 

But let me be thv minstrel now. 



2 10 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ELEANORE. 



The forest flowers are faded all, 

The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall, 

Eleanore ! 
I turn to thee, as to a bower : — 
Thou breathest beauty like a flower, 
Thou smilest like a happy hour, 

Eleanore ! 



ii. 

I turn to thee. I bless afar 

Thy name, which is my guiding-star, 

Eleanore ! 
And yet, ah God ! when thou art here 
I faint, I hold my breath for fear. 
Art thou some phantom wandering near, 

Eleanore ? 



in. 

Oh, take me to thy bosom fair ; 
Oh, cover me with thy golden hair, 

Eleanore ! 
There let me lie when I am dead, 
Those morning-beams about me spread, 
The glory of thy face overhead, 
Eleanore ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 211 



THE STATUE. 



See where my lady stands, 
Lifting her lustrous hands — 

Here let me bow. 
Image of truth and grace ! 
Maid with the angel-face ! 
Earth was no dwelling-place 

For such as thou. 



n. 

Ah, thou unhappy stone, 
Make now thy sorrows known 

Make known thy longing. 
Thou art the form of one 
Whom I, with hopes undone, 
Buried at set of sun — 

All the friends thronging. 



in. 

Thou art some Vision bright 
Lost out of Heaven at night, 
Far from thy race. 



2 12 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Oft, when the others dance, 
Come I, with wistful glance, 
Fearful lest thou, perchance, 
Leave the dark place. 



iv. 

No ! thou wilt never flee, 
Earth has a charm for thee 

Why should we sever ? 
Years have I seen thee so, 
Making pretence to go, 
Lifting thine arms of snow- 
Voiceless for ever ! 



Here bring I all my cares, 
Here dream and say my prayers 

While the. bells toll. 
O thou beloved saint ! 
Let not my courage faint, 
Let not a shame, or taint, 

Injure my soul ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 213 



PABLO DE SARASATE. 



1. 

Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face, 
And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace, 
But are not sad with sadness of the years, 

Or hints of tears ? 

11. 

He is a king^ or I mistake the sign, 

A king of song — a comrade of the Nine — 

The Muses' brother, and their youngest one, 

This side the sun. 

in. 

See how he bends to greet his soul's desire, 
His violin, which trembles like a lyre, 
And seems to trust him, and to know his touch, 

Belov'd so much ! 

iv. 

He stands full height ■; he draws it to his breast. 
Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest — 
A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end — 

To be his friend. 

v. 

And who can doubt the right it has to lie- 
So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh, 
And there to shake its octaves into notes 

With bird-like throats ? 



214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VI. 

Ah ! see how deftly, with his lifted bow, 
He strikes the cords of ecstasy and woe, 
And wakes the wailing of the sprite within 

That knows not sin. 

VII. 

A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands, 
A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands, 
And, like a storm-wind hurrying- from the north, 

A shout breaks forth. 

VIII. 

It is the welcome that of old was given 

To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven 

The angel-choirs of those who serve aright 

The God of Light. 

IX. 

It is the large, loud utterance of a throng 
That loves a faith-employ 'd, impassion'd song ; 
A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad — 

Yet keeps us glad. 

x. 

For look I how bearded men and women fair 
Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer, 
And half are shamed in their so mean estate, • 

And he so great I 

XL 

This is the young Endymion out of Spain 
Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again, 
To re-intone the songs of other times 

In far-off climes r 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



2I 5 



XII. 

To prove again that Music, by the plea 
Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea 
All shores of earth in one serene and grand 

Symphonic land. 

XIII. 

Oh ! hush the while ! Oh ! hush ! A bird has sung, 
A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue, 
And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight 

For sheer delight. 

XIV. 

A phantom bird ! 'Tis gone where all things go — 
The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow, 
The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd— 

All dreams at last. 

xv. 

The towers of light, the castles in the air, 
The queenly things with diamonds in their hair. 
The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art — 

All these depart. 

XVI. 

They seem'd to live ; and lo ! beyond recall, 
They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall, 
And : wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss'd, 

Though glory-kiss'd. 

XVII. 

O pride of Spain ! O wizard with a wand 
More fraught with fervours of the life beyond 
Than books have taught us in these tawdry days, 

Take thou my praise. 



2l6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



XVIII. 

Aye, take it, Pablo ! Though so poor a thing, 
'Twill serve to mind thee of an English spring, 
When wealth, and worth, and fashion, each and all, 

Obey'd thy thrall. 

XIX. 

The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud 
Is God-inspired and glad, — but is not proud, — 
And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze, 

As thou dost these. 

xx. 

The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim, 
That men have brought to magnify thy name, 
Affect thee barely as an idle cheer 

Affects a seer. 

XXI. 

But thou art ours, O Pablo ! ours to-day, 
Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway ; 
And we must urge it by the right that brings 

Honour to kings. 

XXII. 

Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine 
And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line ! * 
Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high. 

Good-night ! Good-bye ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 217 

PRO PATRIA. 

AN ODE TO SWINBURNE. 



["We have not, alack ! an ally to befriend us, 
And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us. 
Let the German touch hands with the Gaul, 
And the fortress of England must fall. 

3f» ths «F TJr $J? tJ» 

Louder and louder the noise of defiance 
"Rings rage from the grave of a trustless alliance, 
And bids us beware, and be warn'd, 
As abhorr'd of all nations and scorn'd." 

A Word for the Nation, by A. C. Swinburne.] 



Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again, 

And curb the tumults that are born in thee, 
That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain 
To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain. 

11. 

Are we not Britons born, when all is said, 

And thou the offspring of the knightly souls 
Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested 
And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head ? 

in. 

O reckless, roystering bard, that in a breath 

Did'st find the way to flout thy fathers' flag! 
Is't well, unheeding what thy Reason saith, 
To seem to triumph in thy country's death ? 



2l8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IV. 



If none will speak for us, if none will say 

How much thy Muse has wrong'd us in its thought, 
'Tis I will do it ; I will say thee nay, 
And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay. 



We own thy prowess ; for we've learnt by rote 
Song after song of thine ; and thou art great. 
But why this malice ? Why this wanton note 
Which seems to come like lava from thy throat ? 



VI. 

When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell ; 

We knew he feared us more than he contemned, 
He necked with fire each sentence as it fell, 
And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell 



VII. 

And we were proud of him, as France was proud ; 

Aye ! called him brother, though he loved us not. 
And we were thrilled when, ruthless from a cloud, 
The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud. 



viii. 



Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song, 

But less than he as spokesman of his Land, 
For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong, 
And call'd it coward though its faith is strong. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 21 9 



IX. 



England a coward ? O thou five foot five 

Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest ! 
Is she not girt with glory and alive 
To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive ? 



x. 



Thou art a bee — a bright, a golden thing 

With too much honey ; and the taste thereof 
Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting 
Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing. 



XI. 



Oh, thou hast wrong'd us ; thou hast said of late 

More than is good for listeners to repeat. 
Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate, 
For friends and foes alike have deem'd us great. 



XII. 



We are not vile ! We, too, have hearts to feel ; 

And not in vain have men remember'd this. 
Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel, 
And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal. 



XIII. 



The sea-ward rocks are proud to be assail'd 
By wave and wind ; for bluster kills itself, 
But rocks endure. And England has prevail'd 
Times out of number, when her foes have failed. 



220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



XIV. 



And once, thou know'st, a giant here was found, 

Not bred in France, or elsewhere under sun. 
And he was Shakespeare of the whole world round, 
And he was king of men, though never crown'd. 



xv. 

He lov'd the gracious earth from east to west, 

And all the seas thereof and all its shores. 
But most he lov'd the home that he possess'd, 
And, right or wrong, his country seem'd the best. 

xvi. 

He was content with Albion's classic land. 

He lov'd its flag. He veil'd its every fault. 
Yes ! he was proud to let its honour stand, 
And bring to light the wonders it had plann'd. 

xvn. 

Do thou thus much ; and deal no further pain ; 

But sooner tear the tongue from out thy mouth, 
And sooner let the life in thee be slain, 
Than strike at One who strikes thee not again. 



XVIIT. 

Thy land and mine, our England, is erect, 

And like a lordly thing she looks on thee, 
And sees thee number'd with her bards elect, 
And will not harm the brow that she has deck'd. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



221 



XIX. 



She lets thee live. She knows how rich and rare 
Are songs like thine, and how the smallest bird 
May make much music in the summer air, 
And how a curse may turn into a prayer. 



xx. 



Take back thy taunt, I say ; and with the same 

Accept our pardon ; or, if this offend, 
Why then no pardon, e'en in England's name. 
We have our country still, and thou thy fame ! 



222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE LITTLE GRAVE. 



A little mound of earth 

Is all the land I own : 
Death gave it me — five feet by three- 

And mark'd it with a stone. 



ii. 

My home, my garden-grave, 
Where most I long to go ! 

The ground is mine by right divine, 
And Heaven will have it so. 



in. 

For here my darling sleeps, 
Unseen — arrayed in white — 

And o'er the grass the breezes pass, 
And stars look down at night. 



IV. 

Here Beauty, Love, and Joy, 

With her in silence dwell, 
As Eastern slaves are thrown in graves 

Of kings remember'd well. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 223 



V. 

But here let no man come, 
My mourning rights to sever. 

Who lieth here is cold and dumb. 
Her dust is mine for ever ! 






224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A DIRGE. 



Art thou lonely in thy tomb ? 
Art thou cold in such a gloom ? 
Rouse thee, then, and make me room,- 
Miserere Domine ! 

ii. 

Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep, 
Nameless things around thee creep, 
Yet be patient, do not weep, — 

Miserere Domine ! 

in. 

be faithful ! O be brave ! 
Naught shall harm thee in thy grave ; 
Let the restless spirits rave, — 

Miserere Domine ! 

IV. 

When my pilgrimage is done, 
When the grace of God is won, 

1 will come to thee, my nun, — 

Miserere Domine ! 

v. 

Like a priest in flowing vest, 
Like a pale, unbidden guest, 
I will come to thee and rest, — 

Miserere Domine ! 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



225 



DAISIES OUT AT SEA. 



These are the buds we bear beyond the surf — 

Enshrined in mould and turf — 
To take to fields far off, a land's salute 

Of high and vast repute — 
The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire, 
Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire, 
But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire. 

11. 

O bright and gracious things that seem to glow 

With frills of winter snow, 
And little golden heads that know the sun, 

And seasons half begun, 
How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair, 
In this their prison on the seaward air, 
On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer ! 



in. 

Have they no memory of the inland grass — • 

The fields where breezes pass, 
And where the full-eyed children, out at play, 

Make all the land so gay ? 
Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear, 
Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier, 
In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here ? 

15 



226 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IV. 

O gems of earth ! O trinkets of the spring- ! 

The sun, your gentle king, 
Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace, 

In many a sacred place, 
The godlike summer sun will miss ye all, 
For he has foster' d all things, great and small, 
Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball. 

v. 

But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene 

The kirtles, tender-green, 
And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers, 

How will he throb for hours, 
And wish the lark, the laureate of the light, 
Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight, 
And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write. 



VI. 

Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told, 

And deem'd it fairy-gold — 
And fairy-silver — that ye bear withal ; 

Ye are so soft and small, 
I weep for joy to find ye here to-day 
So near to Heaven, and yet so far away, 
In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with 

spray. 

VII. 

Ye are the cynosure of many eyes 

Bright-blue as English skies, — 
The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row, 

As if intent to show 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 327 

That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower 
Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower, 
Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not de- 
vour. 

VIII. 

She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy, 

As one may send a toy 
To children's children, bred in other lands, 

By love-abiding hands. 
And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam 
To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home, 
Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore 

to roam. 

IX. 

In England's name, in Shakespeare's — and in ours, 

Who bear these trusted flowers — 
There shall be heard a cheer from many throats, 

A rush and roar of notes, 
As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds ; 
And they who till the ground and tend the herds 
Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same 

in words. 

x. 

For England's sake, for England once again, 
In pride, and power, and pain, 

For England, aye ! for England in the girth 
Of all her joy and worth, 

A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined 

And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind 
Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human- 
kind! 



228 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE KING'S REST. 



Here lies the King, within his tomb — a shrine for 

men to cherish, 
The landmark of a nation's love, whose fame shall 

never perish — 
Our Shakespeare's Rest ! — the grave of him whom all 

were proud to follow, 
Because he joined to Plato's brain the frenzies of 

Apollo. 

ii. 

Aye, there he lies on English soil, the chief of all the 
singers, 

Highest and best in honour's quest among the pas- 
sion-bringers. 

And o'er the stone a warning-word, as if, in kingly- 
sorrow, 

He had foreseen the vulgar touch of some demented 
morrow. 



in. 



So many boons he left us here, so many golden 

verses, 
That, had he cursed us once a year, we might have 

borne his curses. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 229 

But he was just. He cursed but once, as to the grave 

he wended : — 
" Accurst be he who moves my bones \" and there 

the fury ended. 

IV. 

Oh ! he was great, and wise as Fate, and, by the pen 

he wielded — 
Yea, by the pen that was his sword — he loved the 

cause he shielded. 
He loved the children of the poor, the maiden and the 

mother, 
And all who toil by land and sea, and all who help 

each other. 



He found that, as the years declined — as one by one 

they vanished — 
The earth was robbed of many joys, and Chivalry was 

banished. 
And so, to dower the world again — to fill the place 

vacated, — 
He thronged the air with ecstacies which he alone 

created. 

VI. 

He built a palace out of naught, for Love to come and 

win it, — 
A dome of pride and pageantry, and only breath 

within it. 
But when he touched it with his hand, behold ! from 

out the portal, 
A thousand goodly shapes advanced, — and they were 

all immortal. 



23O MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



VII. 

These are the men we know to-day, the friends we 

cannot sever, 
Women and men of Shakespeare's pen who dwell 

with us for ever. 
We may forget the present hour, and facts around it 

clinging. 
But not the grand eternities of his emphatic singing. 



VIII. 

And when- he doffed his robe of clay, to prove amid 
the dying 

That death was meant for meaner men, and not for 
his descrying, 

At least he earned the common right which others, 
still, have taken, 

To turn his face to mother earth, belov'd, and not for- 
saken. 

IX. 

He cannot die ; but he has passed to Nature's holy 

keeping, 
Happy in sleep below the sod, and guarded in his 

sleeping. 
Oh ! peace be his, by night and day, — his spirit with 

the Giver, — 
His dust within the Land he loved, beside the Avon 

river ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 23 I 



HYMN TO THE RISING SUN. 



1. 

O mighty Orb that on the Morning's brow 

Dost shine, all-seeing, in the plentitude 

Of thine up-rising ! O thou joy of earth ! 

Look down and bless the day that's now ordained, 

And let the pseans, let the pomp of spring 

Be thine for ever, O thou Lordly One, 

That hast the Orient for thy crowning-place 
And all the welkin for thy way of grace. 



11. 

The sea is thine, the shores thereof are thine, 
And all the haunts of men, all through the zones ; 
Yea, each created thing through all the years, 
All things are thine to make thee paramount ; 
And there's no essence known, by sea or land, 
That is not quickened by the sight of thee ; 
No ! there is nothing, earthward or in air, 
Which loves thee not with love beyond compare. 

in. 

O holiest on the mountains ! O thou sun 
That art a portent and a prodigy, 
And evermore dost measure time and space ! 
We turn to thee to see thee what thou art — 



232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



How fair, how constant, and how girt with beams, 

And how exultant in thine azure tent, 

When, one by one, the stars confess thy power 
And leave thee all the landscape for a dower. 



IV. 

Bless thou the hills, the rivers and the plains, 
The founts, the forests, and the foaming sea ; 
And each and all thy suppliants on the earth ! 
All through the seasons of thy setting-time 
Bless thou the winds which are thy messengers ; 
And in thy rising bless thou every field, 
And every harvest which thou shinest on 
And every soul who claims thy benison. 



v. 

O planet-prince ! O glory born of night 
That, out of night, dost come to sway the world ! 
Behold, we love thee as the Titans loved, 
When thou did'st bear a god's name under Heaven. 
For thou'rt the Regent of the King of Kings, 
And his exponent through the centuries ; 
And all thy ways are wondrous as of old 
When Sappho praised thee with her harp of gold. 



VI. 

A laureate bird is thine in every grove ; 
In all the fields thou hast thy troubadours. 
A thousand times the lark has trilled to thee, 
And waked the woods in April and in May ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 233 

A myriad times and more his skyward notes 
Have drenched the summer with the dews of song-, 
And made, as 'twere, a feast-time overhead 
For bards to boast of when the days are dead. 



VII. 

Thou proud and pure ! Thou keeper of the keys 
Of East and West, which are thy heritage, 
Where thou — at soaring and at setting-time — 
Dost hold a mansion, well-beloved of men, 
Whereof the roofs are jasper and red light. 
O jocund king ! transcendent, un-afraid, 

And unassailed by storms throughout the land, 
Look down and bless the oceans thou hast 
spanned. 

VIII. 

Bless thou the workers and the men of thought, 
The work they do, the wonders of the lute, 
And all the whisperings of the woods and streams ! 
For thou'rt the wearer of the clouds of morn, 
And where thou art the hours are golden-winged, 
And where thy servants are thy fame is great, 

And where thy singers are, in bower and town, 
The hearts of men respond to thy renown. 



IX. 

Hear us, Light-Giver 1 and, from dawn to dusk, 
Be thou the fiery signal of much joy ! 
Unfurl thy banners beauteous on the hills, 
And let the flash thereof — thy blazonry — 



234 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Be hope's fore-runner in the reddening meads. 

O Sire of Seasons ! Monarch of the Months ! 
Illume, uplift us, here upon the sod, 
And lead our Lives through Nature up to God. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 235 



LYRICS FROM " NERO AND ACTEA."* 



THE SONG OF SELIUS. 



It is the kiss of Love that conquers death ; 
And all the world is quickened by his breath ; 
And day by day, and nightly, as of yore, 
With smiles and tears and tricks from out his store, 
The wanton god renews his rhapsodies. 

11. 

With raging breast the tiger to his mate 
Leaps, fell and fierce, affamished and elate ; 
But more than he for fierceness of attack 
Is Woman's lover when, on wonder's track, 
He lays her low in Love's enravishment. . . . 

* A five-act tragedy. 



236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE SONG OF PETRONIUS. 



Oh, tell me not that Love is lord of all, 

Or that the moon is mistress of the spheres. 

It is great Caesar has the world in thrall ; 
And what he sings in these eventful years 
Is necked with fire or sanctified by tears. 

11. 

It is the golden god who sways the heart, 
And what he wills is law from land to land. 

He has his portion in the poet's art ; 
And grief and joy are merged at his command 
To re-endow the raptures he has planned. 

in. 

He is the sovereign of the welkin's height, 
And from the disk of his resplendent throne 

He doth control the seasons in their flight ; 
And all the stars are his from zone to zone, 
And Dian's eyes are turned to him alone. 






S O N N ETS 



I. 
ECSTASY. 

I cannot sing to thee as I would sing 

If I were quickened like the holy lark, 
With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, 

Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark 
Renewed in rapture in the reddening air. 

A thing of splendour do I deem him then, 
A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat, 
A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 

'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men. 
He fills me with such wonder and despair ! 

I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, 
As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun. 
Oh ! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, 

And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright ! 



24 O SONNETS. 



II. 

VISIONS. 

The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, 

And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, 

And infant naiads bathing in the rill, 

And dryad maids that dance upon the green, 
And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen 

They wear in summer, when the air is still. 

He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill, 
And sees Creation through its mask terrene. 

The dead are wise, for they alone can see 
As see the bards — as see, beyond the dust, 
The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just. 

There is no comfort in the bitter fee 

That scholars pay for fame. True sage is he 

Who doubts all doubt, and takes the soul on trust. 






SONNETS. 24 1 



III. 

THE DAISY. 

See where it stands, the world-appointed flower, 

Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon — 
A mimic sun to light a true-love bower 

For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon, 

Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon. 
It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour, 
As if endowed with nympholeptic power — 

Then shuts its petals like a folding tune ! 
I love it more than words of mine can say, 

And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer. 

Methinks the lark has made it still his care 
To brag of daisies to the lord of day. 
Well ! I will follow suit, as best I may, 

Launching my love-songs on the summer air. 



242 SONNETS. 



IV. 

PROBATION. 

Could I, O Love ! obtain a charter clear 

To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days, 
I would consult the stars, from year to year, 

And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways, 
And why the nymphs so seldom now appear 

In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze ; 

And I would learn of thee why Joy decays, 
And why the Fauns have ceas'd to nourish here. 
I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas ! " 

Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight ; 
I would peruse the writing on the grass 

Which flowers have traced in blue and red and 
white ; 
And, reading these, I would, as from a pen, 
Read thoughts of thine unguess'd by other men ! 






SONNETS. 243 



V. 

DANTE. 

He liv'd and lov'd ; he suffer'd ; he was poor ; 
But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven, 
And those of all the week-days that are seven, 

And those of all the centuries that endure. 

He bow'd to none ; he kept his honour sure. 
He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven 
Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven* 

To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure. 

He knew the secrets of the singing-time ; 
He track'd the sun ; he ate the luscious fruit 
Of grief and joy ; and with his wonder-lute 

He made himself a name in every clime. 

The minds of men were madly stricken mute, 

And all the world lay subject to his rhyme ! 

* Steven, a voice ; old word revived. 



244 SONNETS. 



VI. 

DIFFIDENCE. 

I cannot deck my thought in proud attire, 

Or make it fit for thee in any dress, 
Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire, 
In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire, 

Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless. 

For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness, 
And well I know the weakness of the lyre 

Which I have striven to sway to thy caress. 
Yet I must quell my tears and calm the smart 

Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge 

From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's 
surge. 
I must control the beating of my heart, 
And bid false pride be gone, who, with his art, 

Has press'd, too long, a suit I dare not urge. 



Ik 



SONNETS. 245 



VII. 

FAIRIES. 

Glory endures when calumy hath fled ; 
And fairies show themselves, in friendly guise, 
To all who hold a trust beyond the dead, 
And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise, 
With cheerful hearts, or wildly-weeping eyes. 
They come and go when children are in bed 
To gladden them with dreams from out the skies 
And sanctify all tears that they have shed ! 
Fairies are wing'd for wandering to and fro. 
They live in legends ; they survive the Greeks. 
Wisdom is theirs ; they live for us and grow, 
Like things ambrosial, fairer than the freaks 
Of signs and seasons which the poets know, 
Or fires of sunset on the mountain peaks. 



246 



SONNETS. 



VIII. 

SPIRIT LOVE. 

How great my joy ! How grand my recompense 

I bow to thee ; I keep thee in my sight, 

I call thee mine, in love though not in sense, 

I share with thee the heritage immense 

Of holy dreams which come to us at night, 

When, through the medium of the spirit-lens, 

We see the soul in its primeval light, 

And Reason spares the hopes it cannot blight. 

It is the soul of thee, and not the form, 

And not the face I yearn to in my sleep. 

It is thyself. The body is the storm, 

The soul the star beyond it in the deep 

Of Nature's calm. And yonder on the steep 

The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm ! 









SONNETS. 247 



IX. 

AFTER TWO DAYS. 

Another night has turn'd itself to day, 

Another day has melted into eve, 

And lo ! again I tread the measured way 

Of word and thought, the twain to interweave, 

As flowers absorb the rays that they receive. 

And, all along the woodland where I stray, 

I think of thee, and Nature keeps me gay, 

And sorrow soothes the soul it would bereave. 

Nor will I fear that thou, so far apart, 

So dear to me, so fair, and so benign, 

Wilt un-desire the fealty of a heart 

Which evermore is pledg'd to thee and thine, 

And turns to thee, in regions where thou art, 

To hymn the praises of thy face divine ! 



248 SONNETS. 






X. 

BYRON. 

He was a god descended from the skies 
To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave, 
And consecrate a hope he could not save ; 
For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise. 
Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies, 
And oftentimes his life he did deprave. 
But all do pity him, though none despise. 
He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave. 
He ask'd for tears — and they were tinged with fire 
He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him. 
He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim, 
And found it not ; then wept upon his lyre. 
He sang the songs of all the world's desire — 
He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim ! 



SONNETS. 249 






XI. 

LOVE'S AMBITION. 

I must invoke thee for my spirit's good, 
And prove myself un-guilty of the crime 

Of mere self-seeking, though with this imbued. 

I sing as sings the mavis in a wood, 
Content to be alive at harvest-time. 

Had I its wings I should not be withstood ! 
But I will weave my fancies into rhyme, 
And greet afar the heights I cannot climb. 

I will invoke thee, Love ! though far away, 
And pay thee homage, as becomes a knight 
Who longs to keep his true-love in his sight. 

Yea, I will soar to thee, in roundelay, 

In shine and shower, and make a bold assay 
Of each fond hope, to compass thee aright. 



250 SONNETS. 



XII. 

LOVE'S DEFEAT. 

Do what I will I cannot chant so well 
As other men ; and yet my soul is true. 

My hopes are bold ; my thoughts are hard to tell, 
But thou can'st read them, and accept them, too, 
Though, half-abash'd, they seem to hide from view. 

I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow shell ; 

And why ? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel, 
And when I count the woes that must ensue. 

But for this reason, and no other one, 

I dare to look thy way, and bow my head 

To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun, 
Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed 
With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed, 

Unnumberd tears, till life or Jove be done ! 



SONNETS. 25I 



XIII. 



A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT. 

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm 

That tells of chaos ; and 1 read the same 

As one may read the writing of a name — 
As one in Hell may see the sudden form 

Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame. 
How weird the scene ! The Dark is sulphur-warm 
With hints of death ; and in their vault enorme 

The reeling stars coagulate in flame. 
And now the torrents from their mountain-beds 

Roar down unchecked ; and serpents shaped of mist 
Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads ; 

And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, 
Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, 

And shake the air like Titans that have kiss'd ! 






252 



SONNETS. 



XIV. 



IN TUSCANY. 



Dost thou remember, friend of vanished days, 
How, in the golden land of love and song, 

We met in April in the crowded ways 
Of that fair city where the soul is strong, 

Aye ! strong as fate, for good or evil praise ? 

And how the lord whom all the world obeys — 
The lord of light to whom the stars belong — 
Illumed the track that led thee through the throng? 

Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale, 
Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, 
How all the air was flooded as with wine ? 

And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, 

Peal'd out sweet notes ? I live to tell the tale. 
But thou ? Oblivion signs thee with a sign ! 



SONNETS. 253 



XV. 

A HERO. 

The warrior knows how fitful is the fight — 

How sad to live — how sweet perchance to die. 
Is Fame his joy ? He meets her on the height, 

And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry ; 

His eyes are wet ; our own will not be dry. 
Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight, 
When he survives to serve his Land aright 

And make his fame the watchword of the sky. 
In all our hopes his love is with us still ; 

He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve. 

His acts are just ; his word we must believe, 
And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill 
To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill : — 

Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve ! 



2 54 SONNETS. 



XVI. 

REMORSE. 

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear ; 

And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, 
And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair, 

And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie, 

My doom is this : my joy was quick to die. 
The chain of custom, in the drowsy lair 
Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, 

And both abhorr'd it — thou as well as I. 
Ah, God ! 'tis tearful-true ; and I repent '; 

And like a dead, live man I live for this : — 

To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, 
And be mine own most piteous monument. 

What ! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss ? 
There, take it back ; and frown ; and be content ! 



SONNETS. 255 



XVII. 

THE MISSION OF THE BARD. 

He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring 

Of Art and Nature ; and his voice is bold. 
He should be quicker than the birds to sing, 

And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old 
Who sang their songs for country and for king, 

Nothing should daunt him, though the news were 
told 

By fiends from Hell ! He should be swift to hold 
And swift to part with truth, as from a spring. 

He should discourse of war and war's alarm, 
And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought, 

And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm, 
And warlike men subdued by tender thought, 
And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought, 

And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm ! 



2^6 SONNETS. 



XVIII. 

DEATH. 

It is the joy, it is the zest of life, 

To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, 
Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, 

And not a serpent with a look of guile, 

But one who greets us with a seraph's smile — 
An angel-guest to tend us after strife, 
And keep us true to God when fears are rife, 

And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile. 
He walks the world as one empower' d to fill 

The fields of space for Father and for Son. 

He is our friend, though morbidly we shun 
His tender touch — a cure for every ill. 

He is the king of peace, when all is done. 
Earth and the air are moulded to his will. 






SONNETS. 257 






XIX. 



TO ONE I LOVE. 

Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, 

A garden nook, not far from thy domain, 
That there, with harp, and voice and poet-book, 

I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain, 

Rehearse the songs of nature once again : — 
The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook 

To sooth the raptures of a lover's pain, 
And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook ! 
I die to serve thee, and for this alone — 

To be thy bard-elect, Irom day to day — 
I would forego the right to fill a throne. 

I would consent to be the famine-prey 
Of some, fierce pard, if ere the night were flown 

I could subdue thy spirit to my sway. 

17 



2 5 8 



SONNETS. 



XX. 



EX TENEBRA. 

The winds have showr'd their rains upon the sod, 

And flowers and trees have murmur' d as with lips. 
The very silence has appeal'd to God 
In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod. 

'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse 

Had dull'd the skies — as if, on mountain-tips, 
The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene, 

And clouds were foundering like benighted ships. 
But what is this, exultant, unforeseen, 

Which cleaves the dark ? A fearful, burning thing ! 

Is it the moon ? Or Saturn's scarlet ring 
Hurl'd into space ? It is the tempest-sun ! 

It is the advent of the Phceban king 
Which tells the valleys that the storm is done ! 






SONNETS. 259 



XXI. 

VICTOR HUGO. 

Victor the King ! alive to-day, not dead ! 

Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand 

A poor pale wreath, the best at my command, 
But all unfit to deck so grand a head. 

It is the outcome of a neighbour land 
Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years. 
It is the token of a nation's tears 

Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again. 

Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain — 
These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse. 
We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse ; 

We call thee friend ; we ratify thy reign, 
Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone, 
But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne ! 



26o SONNETS. 



XXII. 



CYNTHIA. 



Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres 
To be the guardian of the ocean-tides, 

1 charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears, 
And by thy face, the oracle of brides, 
Why evermore Remorse with thee abides ? 

Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears, 

That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer 
With ghosts and shades ? Perchance thou dost aspire 
To bridal honours, and thy Phoebus-sire 

Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be ? 
Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns ? 

Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter 
Hath many moons — his daughters and his sons — 

And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee ? 



SONNETS. 26l 



XXIII. 

PHILOMEL. 

Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, 

The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, 
Thrills into rapture ; and the stars above 

Look down, affrighted, as they would reply. 

There is contagion, and I know not why, 
In all this clamour, all this fierce delight, 

As if the sunset, when the day did swoon, 

Had drawn some wild confession from the moon. 
Have wrongs been done ? Have crimes enacted been 
To shame the weird retirement of the night ? 

O clamorous bird ! O sad, sweet nightingale ! 
Withhold thy voice, and blame not beauty's queen. 

She may be pure, though dumb : and she is pale, 
And wears a radiance on her brow serene. 



262 SONNETS. 






XXIV. 

THE SONNET KING. 

Petrarch ! I am here. I bow to thee, 
Great king of sonnets, throned long ago, 

And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me, 
And miser-like, enamoured of my woe, 
I reckon up my teardrops as they flow. 

1 would not lose the power to shed a tear 

For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign. 

I would not be so base as not complain 
When she I love is absent from my sight, 
No, not for all the marvels of the night, 

And all the varying splendours of the year. 
Do thou assist me, thou ! that art the light 

Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere, 
To make a May-time of my sorrows slain. 









SONNETS. 263 



XXV. 

TOKEN FLOWERS. 

Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God ! 
Take not the daisy ; let it bloom apace 
Untouch'd alike by splendour or disgrace 

Of party feud. Its stem is not a rod ; 

And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod. 

It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face, 
And everywhere doth fill a lowly place, 
Though fraught with favours for the darkest clod. 

'Tis said the primose is a party flower, 
And means coercion, and the coy renown 
Of one who toil'd for country and for crown. 

This may be so ! But, in my Lady's bower, 

It means content — a hope — a golden hour. 
Primroses smile ; and daisies cannot frown ! 



264 SONNETS. 



XXVI. 

A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND. 

Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call — 
By whom we live — on whom our hopes are built — 
Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt, 

Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall 

Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall ! 
Do thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt, 
When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt, 

Ajid keep it strong when traitors would appal. 

Uphold us still, O God ! and be the screen 

And sword and buckler of our England's might, 

That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene, 
May fade away, as fades a winter's night. 

Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen. 
Wilt Thou not help us, Lord ! to find the Light ? 






SONNETS. 265 



XXVII. 

A VETERAN POET. 

I knew thee first as one may know the fame 
Of some apostle, as a man may know 
The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow. 

I hail'd thee prince of poets ! I became 

Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame 
Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow 
With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show, 

And ail the splendours. Master ! of thy name. 

But now, a man reveaFd, a guide for men, 
I see thy face, 1 clasp thee by the hand ; 
And, though the Muses in thy presence stand, 

There's room for me to loiter in thy ken. 

O lordly soul ! O wizard of the pen ! 

What news from God? What word from Fairyland? 



ITALIAN POEMS. 

By ERIC MACKAY. 






LA ZINGARELLA. 



Dimmi, dimmi, o trovatore, 
Tu che canti sul liuto, 
Bello e bruno e pien d' amore 
Dalla valle in su venuto, 
Non ti fermi sull' altura 
Per mostrar la tua bravura ? 
Non mi canti sul burrone 
Qualche lieta tua canzone? 

ii. 

— Zingarella, in sulla sera 
Canta bene il rosignolo, 
Piange e canta in sua preghiera 
Salutando un dolce suolo. 
Ma il liuto al mio toccare 
Pianger sa, non sa pregare . . . 
Deh ! che vuoi col tuo sorriso, 
Tu che sai di paradiso ? 

in. 

— V6 sentire in tuo linguaggio 
Come e fatto un uom fedele, 
Se 1' amor lo fa selvaggio, 
Se il destin lo fa crudele. 



2 JO ITALIAN POEMS. 

Parla schietto ; son profana 
Ma ben leggo 1' alma umana. 
Parla pur del tuoi vi'aggi 
Nei deserti e nei villaggi. 

IV. 

— Canterotti, o zingarella, 

Qualche allegra mia ballata, 

Qualche estatica novella 

D' una dama innamorata . . . 

— Dimmi tutto ! — Canterotti 

D' Ungheria le meste notti. 

— D' Ungheria? — Del Bosco Santo 

Dove nacque il gran Sorranto. 

v. 

Sappi in breve, son marchese 
Castellano e cantatore, 
Cattivai con questo arnese 
D' una maga un di 1' amore. 
— D' una maga ? — Si, di quelle 
Che san legger nelle stelle. 
— E fu bella ? — Non v' e guari 
Dama, oh no, che le sia pari. 






VI. 

Come parca in fra le dita 

Essa tenne il mio destino, 
Fu la sfmge di mia vita 
Col sorriso suo divino. 
Avea biondi i suoi capelli, 
Occhi neri e molto belli, 
Braccia e collo in puritade 
Come neve quando cade. 






ITALIAN POEMS. 2J I 



VII. 

— Taci, taci, o castellano ; 

Qui convien pregar per essa. 
— Io 1' amai d' amor sovrano ! 
Pronta fu la sua promessa. 
L' aspettai ; mi fu cortese, 
Ma fuggi dal mio paese, 
Travestita un di di Maggio 
Come biondo e giovin paggio. 

VIII. 

Oh, giammai non fu sognata 
Cosa uguale per bellezza ; 
Chi la vide incoronata 
Sorridea per tenerezza. 
Chi la vide di mattina 
La credeva una regina, 
Qualche sogno di poeta, 
Qualche in canto di profeta ! 

IX. 

— Traditor ! col tuo liuto 

Tu 1' hai fatto innamorare ! 
— Io giurai per San Bernuto, 
E pel Cristo in sull' altare, 
Per Giuseppe e per Maria, 
Che farei la vita pia. 
— E il facesti ? — I sacri voti 
Ricantai dei sacerdoti ! 

x. 

— Or m' ascolta, o trovatore, 

Or rispondi, e dimmi il vero : 



272 ITALIAN POEMS. 

Hai veduto il mesto fiore 
Che si coglie in cimitero ? 
Hai veduto i fior di rose 
Che s' intreccian per le spose, 
Quando cantan desolati 
Gli usignoli abbandonati ? 

XI. 

Crolli il capo ; impallidisci ; 

Stendi a me la bianca mano ; 
Non rispondi ; e forse ambisci 
Delia sposa ormai 1' arcano ? 
Qui mori la Gilda, maga 
Sotto il nome di Menzaga ; 
Qui mori, nel suo pallore, 
Per 1' amor d' un trovatore ! 



XII. 

Stravolto F amante s' inchina ; 

Ei mira la mesta donzella. 

Velata e la maga, ma bella, 
Coll'occhio che pianger non sa. 

— donna, T amor t' indovina . 

Tu, Gilda, t' ascondi cola ! 

XIII. 

Nel mondo non v' e la sembianza 
Di tale e di tanta beltade ! 
Non cresce per queste contrade 

Ne giglio ne spirto d' amor. 
Tu sola tu sei la Speranza 
Che tenni qua stretta sul cor. 






ITALIAN POEMS. 273 



XIV. 

Tu sola tu sei la mia dama, 

La gioja e 1' onor della vita; 

Tu sola, donzella romita, 
Del mondo la diva sei tu. 

L' amor ti conosce, e la fama ; 

Ne manca Y antica virtu. 



xv. 

Ma dove e la fe del passato 

Che tanto brillo nella festa? 

L' amore, 1' onore, le gesta 
D' un tempo che presto fuggi ? 

Fu vero ? L' ho forse sognato ? 

Tu pur 1' hai sognato cosi ! 



xvi. 

La maga intenta ascolta il suo galante ; 

Ride, si scioglie il velo e guarda il Sire. 
Rossa diventa e bianca in uno istante, 
E poi s' asconde il viso e vuol fuggire. 
Corre nei bracci suoi lo fido amante ; 
E favellar vorria nel suo gioire . . . 



XVII. 

— Deh ! taci, oh taci ! Al mondo ovunque e doglia. 

Gilda son io. Ti bacio e son contenta. 

Pianger non so se non per pazza voglia 
Come la strega allor che si lamenta . . . 



274 



ITALIAN POEMS. 



XVIII. 



Cosa vuoi tu ? Che vuoi che si mi guardi ? 

Diva non son, ma donna ; e fui crudele. 

— Baciami in bocca. O Dio ! mi stringi ed ardi 
Tanto d' amore e piangi e sei fedele ? 



XIX. 



— Ugo ! M' ascolta, io son la tua meschina, 
Forte ben si, ma doma in questi agoni ; 
Sono la schiava tua, la tua regina, 

Quel che tu vuoi purche non m' abbandoni ! 



xx. 



. 



^ 



— O cara, o casta, o bella, o tu che bramo, 
Dammi la morte unita a un tuo sorriso. 
Eva sarai per me. Son io Y Adamo ; 

E quivi in terra avrassi il paradiso ! 



ITALIAN POEMS. 275 



IL PONTE D' AVIGLIO. 



O mesto bambino col capo chinato, 
Rispondi ; rispondi ! Che fece Renato ? 
Fu vinto Morello ? Fu salvo Lindoro ? 
Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Son padre di loro. 

11. 

Non veggo tornare dal Ponte d' Aviglio 
Renato superbo del vinto periglio. 
U han forse promosso ? Risorge la guerra ? 
Rispondi ; rispondi ! — L' han messo sottera. 

in. 

O ciel ! tu lo senti, tu vedi 1' oltraggio ; 
Renato fu prence del nostro villaggio ! . . . 
Ma dimmi, piccino. Che fece Morello ? 
Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Lo chiude 1' avello. 

IV. 

Ahi, crudo destino ! Si grande, si forte, 
Morello nasceva per vincer la morte. 
Ma 1' altro ? Che fece sul campo serrato ? 
Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Mori da soldato. 



276 



ITALIAN POEMS. 



Gran Dio ! che mi narri ! Pur desso m' e tolto ? 
Renato m' e morto ? Morello sepolto ? 
E piangi, . . . tu pure ? Gentile bambino ! 
Che dici ? Rispondi ! — Vi resta Giannino. 



VI. 



Oh si, del figliuolo 1' ignoto tesoro, 
1/ incognito figlio del biondo Lindoro. 
Ma dove trovarlo nel nome di Dio ? 
Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Buon padre, son io ! 



ITALIAN POEMS. 277 



I MIEI SALUTI. 

1. 

Ti saluto, Margherita, 

Fior di vita, . . . ti saluto ! 
Sei la speme del mattino, 
Sei la gioja del giardino. 

11. 

Ti saluto, Rosignolo 

Nel tuo duolo, . . . ti saluto ! 
Sei 1' amante della rosa 
Che morendo si fa sposa. 

in. 

Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio 

Col tuo raggio, . . . ti saluto ! 
Sei 1' Apollo del passato, 
Sei 1' amore incoronato. 

IV. 

Ti saluto, Donna mia, 

Casta e pia, . . . ti saluto ! 
Sei la diva dei desiri, 
Sei la Santa dei Sospiri. 

THE END, 



I 



